


Maybe There’s Blood in This Stone Yet

by Batwynn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe, BAMF Stiles, Beacon Hills, F/M, Humor, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mystery, Psychological Horror, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out About Werewolves, is a little crazy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-30 12:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6423232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwynn/pseuds/Batwynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and his dad move into a small town just in time for his junior year in high school. His dad gets the cushy sheriff job, presumably all desk work and less being shot at, and Stiles gets to meet new people. </p><p>Like the thing that chaises him through the woods his third day in, or the group of teenagers who call themselves a pack, or Deputy Hale, who has the most amazing eyes Stiles has ever seen, and who also knows weird things about him without even asking. All in all, Beacon Hills is turning out to be anything but boring.<br/>[Rating subject to change]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything's Going So Well

**Author's Note:**

> [ Highly not edited, my apologies. ]

 

 

First, it’s all trees. Lots and lots of trees—maybe one gas station per three billion frickin'  _trees_ —and since vegetation and greasy-looking truck stops aren’t as enthralling as they sound, Stiles pays more attention to his laptop than the world rushing past them as they drive. That changes, though, as soon as they reach the ‘Welcome to Beacon Hills’ sign which, surprise, is surrounded by more trees. The weird part about that, though, is that he feels it before he even sees the sign. Some kind of niggling in the base on his neck that tells him to ’ _look, look_ ** _now_** _.’_

 

So he does, and it’s a decent sign and all that, only been shot at… twice, maybe? Pretty cool graffiti on the edge there, too, but Stiles has no idea what that heavy weight was that made it seem so important just before they passed it. Probably just a crick in his neck. He roll his shoulders and gets back to typing up his personal notes from his research into body farms.

 

‘ _It takes 23 hours for the blowfly larvae to hatch, if the weather is—_ “

 

“Stiles, put that away.”

 

Stiles pauses mid sentence, and is about to continue on when he realizes he’s losing his train of thought. When the weather was… what? Cool? 

 

Stiles tosses his head back and groans at him, “ _Dad_ , I was on a roll and you’ve ruined it. Ruined it all forever and always.”

 

“We’re reaching the edge of town and I want to see this with you,” his dad argues, with just a dash of sadness that Stiles knows all too well to be manipulation over sincerity. To drive the spike home, he adds, “You’re morbid curiosity with death and decay can wait five minutes. Spend some time with your old man.”

 

Stiles mutters a quiet, “I learned it from watching you,” and closes his laptop with a loud creak. The poor thing is on its last—well, forth last leg, really—and in dire need of an upgrade. Which requires money, which he really hopes won’t be a problem now that they’re in Beacon Hills. Maybe he can get a job in a cafe or something. He could totally do that, making hot drinks and—no, okay, carrying hot drinks over to people’s tables and probably burning them alive when he trips on air. He totally _can’t_ do that. Besides, they might not even _have_ a cafe; it’s a small town, from what he can see so far. 

 

His first impression isn’t bad, really. The place looks a little boring on their first drive through, but Stiles can probably live with boring, as long as he has Internet. And while Beacon Hills could never be quite like Santa Barbara, that was kind of exactly why they were here. Half the reason Stiles didn’t put up a fight—much of a fight, because, come on, he’s lived in Santa Barbara all his life—was _because_ Beacon Hills was different. Two hours away, and the town had almost 40% less crime, the air quality readings were promising, and there were a hell of a lot less people shooting at cops in the past year than there were in the past five days in Santa Barbara. Granted, Stiles does notice a lot of animal attacks reported, and there’s one news article about a murder that catches his attention right away, but the murder was like three years ago and apparently they arrested some guy and let him go. The article was actually pretty scathing towards the police department, and the writing was downright archaic half the time. It made Stiles wonder who this Jennifer person was and if the old lady had some kind of cougar-crush on the murder suspect. Maybe the police didn’t rescue one of her ten thousand cats from a tree, once. But, whatever, that was nothing compared to Santa Barbara, and thus his dad earned his approval for the move. The place seems healthy, wholesome, tree-y, less shooty. Totally sounds like the hip place to be.

 

Plus, his dad got to go from being a sort of an In-between-head detective, who was forced to take on way too many cases at once until his hair was falling out, to the sheriff of a teeny-tiny town. Which means higher pay and less danger, hopefully. If Stiles has to guess, being sheriff in Beacon Hills means nothing more than warning off a few bored kids from vandalizing the abandoned factories they just passed, and bringing in one or two old, drunk dudes with shotguns and a property line to dispute. Or rescuing Old-Lady-Jennifer’s cats from trees. 

 

His dad’s talking, he realizes a little late. Pointing out places like the hospital, which both of them promise to never end up in, the diner that Stiles warns will only be a bi-weekly thing, and the station that his dad has to report to in the morning. And again, it’s nice. Stiles thought it was going to be hard, not knowing where everything is and town’s people hazing outsiders, or whatever happens when you’re new in town. And he probably should have worn something a little warmer than his hoodie. It’s not even that far away from the coast and Stiles is freezing while people walk by on the street in t-shirts and shorts. Some of them are frowning when they see the unfamiliar truck drive past them, but Stiles decides that as long as he doesn’t see any torches and pitchforks, Beacon Hills is doing okay so far. 

 

 

Stiles absently nods his head, gaze still fixated on the town passing by the window, while tapping his feet to the beat of some kind of terrible polka his dad thinks it’s okay to listen to now that he’s done with the mini-tour. He doesn’t know why he nods, like the town needs to see a sign of his approval, but it feels like the right thing to do and his dad is too busy scrounging up the slips of paper with sloppily jotted down directions to notice. Stiles finally pitches in and finds the right one for him—it’s in his hoodie pocket, go figure—and minutes later, they pull up to the new house which is… It’s nice. It’s way nicer than the place they had in Santa Barbra, even if it’s missing that 'home’ element.

 

_That’s okay_ , Stiles reminds himself. He can live with that. It’s worth it, because his dad being sheriff to this sleepy little town means paying off old medical bills for the first time in years, and a maybe finally getting his dad on that diet his doctors recommended when they heard that first stutter in the man’s heart beat last year. Even if that means that Stiles has to abandon his few precious friends, and—no, it’s not important. They could be peaceful here, well, his dad could be peaceful here. That’s all that matters.

 

That and Stiles swears the town does a sort of nod back to him, like its approving their arrival, too.

 

So, not bad. Not bad at all.

 

* * *

 

 

He finds his first problem that night, after unpacking just enough to eat dinner—Chinese take out, so basically forks for those ungifted with chopsticks—and sheets, and clothes enough to crawl into bed.

 

The problem is his room. It’s a nice room, painted a comfortable blue, good space, squishy carpet that Stiles spends twenty minutes brushing one way or the other to make shapes in carpet-fuzz. He draws a fox sitting on a moon by his bed, and a penis by the door just to see his dad’s reaction in the morning. He’s an artist.

 

Anyway, the room isn’t bad, it’s just that it’s not _his_ room. _His_ room is ten steps away from his parent’s room, has hard wood floors that freeze his toes in the morning and creak if he gets up at night. It smells like mint and whatever other spices his mom used to put in those little bags under his pillow, above his doorway, and the window sill. His room has pencil marks by the door where his mother would mark his growth until he was eleven and he never asked his dad to take over. His room was a part of his old life—the one he’s supposed to be letting go of for the sake of his dad, and, well, himself too.

 

_So, go to sleep_ , he tells himself, glaring up at the new ceiling. It doesn’t even have the decency to have cracks in it for him to count.

 

Stiles grumbles and turns over to stare at his phone. Midnight isn’t too late for anyone other than his dad, maybe he should let his friends know he arrived… alive? Like he was supposed to hours ago—shit!

 

Stiles sits up and quickly shoots off a few texts to all three of his friends, then proceeds to chew on his thumb as he waits for replies. He’s not one hundred percent sure they’ll actually respond, not when a nasty little voice is telling him that he’s _out of sight, out of mind_.

 

Bon-Joe-V: _Holy shit man u said u wud text wen u got there! Its been likefcking 10 hours!! Asshole!!! Ur lucky ur dads a cop or I would’ve called them on ur ass._

 

Still Styles: _Soooo sry, did I worry u? Poor bastard._

 

Bon-Joe-V: _Shithead. This is y we can’t have nice things. But yah I was worried._

 

 

Stiles grins, because shut up nasty voice, Joe would never abandon him. Even if it is a two hour drive to Beacon Hills from Santa Barbra and his poor jeep most definitely can’t make that drive. Even then, Joe will persevere. He’s stuck by Stiles since kindergarten, which means Joe has seen literally every side of him and hasn’t flinched yet. Well, once, but that was when Stiles was shooting stuff at his face, so that doesn’t count. Probably.

 

Feeling at least ten pounds lighter, Stiles texts him through the night, not stopping until the sun starts to rise. He finally gives in to sleep when his sentences start making even less sense, Joe has gone monosyllabic, and he’s too tired to care that his room smells like nothing but new carpet.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek’s first problem is that the new sheriff is just too… Nice. He’s been in his office for ten minutes now and already let several things slide that the old sheriff would get in order in the blink of an eye. Which isn’t too bad, Derek realizes, because the second problem is a lot more problematic.

 

Apparently, they don’t have werewolves in Santa Barbra.

 

That’s a lie, actually, Derek knows of two packs in the area, but clearly sheriff Stilinski has never met them. Which is a problem, because he'll look at Derek and Boyd, who interns on the weekends, and see humans. Just your average people, doing average people things with no 'super powers’ to aid them. Derek doesn’t miss the concerned look Parrish shoots them, either. Talk about problems, try being the hell hound of the police department.

 

Either way, it’s a problem that Derek isn’t sure how to fix, because while a lot of people don’t know about the supernatural, their old sheriff did. Without their commander knowing, it makes their work a hell of a lot more difficult to do while hiding rapidly healing wounds, extra strength, and random moments of catching on fire and possible dead body-theft. (Actually, Parrish has moved past that last part. They still make jokes, though.)

 

So, Derek sends out a group text calling for a pack meeting, because clearly they need to discuss this before making a decision. Scott, of course, is his usual panicky self. Lots of exclamation points and already coming up with overly-decisive plans without actually wanting feedback from the pack. It’s obnoxious, and now Derek’s phone is blowing up with some stupid text argument between Scott and Lydia, of all people.

 

Derek has half a mind to alpha-roar out the window to get them to shut up.

 

“Can someone tell me why there’s an entire file labeled 'mountain lions’?” The new sheriff calls out from his office.

 

Parrish makes a small choking noise, and Derek turns off his phone with a sigh.

 

This is going to be such a hassle.

 

* * *

 

 

Ironically enough, it’s Joe who finally gets Stiles out of the house. After that night of texting, Stiles plans on spending the entire day inside, pretending to unpack while mostly just moving one thing or another around until it 'looks right’. He just doesn’t have the energy for much else, and besides, he has all summer to unpack before he starts his new school year.

 

Which is how he ends up in the middle of town, trying to look inconspicuous while eyeing everything and everyone.

 

Because he mentions, causally, to Joe that he’s fricken terrified of a new school. How he’ll have no friends, and while his GPA is great, who knows what the teachers here are like.

 

To which Joe answers, ’ _Go make sum friends u loser_ ,’ and ignores Stiles from then on out.

 

Sadly, it works. So, Stiles pulls a hoodie on, sticks one of the strings in his mouth, and leaves the house. It’s a short walk into town, which is okay. It’s… nice enough. It has a cinema, thank god, and a lot of cute shops and stuff that might be Interesting. There’s a drum set in one window, and Stiles mentally marks that off as a 'must visit when I have money’ store.

 

The cafe, though, draws him in immediately with its sweet siren song of beans grinding, hot dribbling espresso, and the tortured screams of milk being steamed.

 

Annnnd where there be caffein, there be teenagers. A whole group of them are seated in a booth at the far back of the store, talking animatedly between long drinks of something that looks tooth-rotting sweet. Basically everything Stiles ever dreamed of.

 

Stiles tries to creep closer, hoping to get an idea of what they’re talking about before he asks them what those incredible drinks are. (There’s, like, six feet of whipped cream.) It doesn’t sound like its about drugs or shooting up a liquor store, which is good, but they keep talking about a 'pack’ and 'protection’. That’s usually a gang thing. Stiles doesn’t want to ask a gang about their sugary drinks, he’s already been punched for something similar back in Santa Barbra.

 

“There’s a creepy kid lurking behind you.”

 

Stiles jumps a little, and looks over his shoulder before he realizes they mean him. _He’s_ the creepy kid. Turning back to the group, Stiles is met with five pairs of eyes staring at him with varying levels of distrust and suspicion.

 

“I’m not actually creepy, I swear.”

 

“That’s what they all say,” the blonde girl drawls, tapping her chin with a scary-long, pink nail. “I’ve never seen you around, who are you?”

 

Stiles shuffles a little closer, feeling eager. This is clearly his way in, his moment to introduce himself before it’s all awkward school introductions lead by less-than-enthusiastic teachers.

 

“I’m Stiles, and you probably haven’t seen me around because I’ve only been here for half a day, really. Well, a night and half a day, so slightly less than twenty four hours, I guess.”

 

“Why are you here?” The guy to her right snaps, his uneven jaw distracting Stiles from answering. How did that happen? Was he born like that or did he have some kind of intense gang fight that made it crooked? That would be pretty cool, actually.

 

“He asked you why you’re here.”

 

Stiles blinks, and focuses on Mr. Curly-Head Kewpie Doll who’s sitting closer to him. He looks like he should be the nice guy of the group, but Stiles has learned that the more innocent a gang member looks, the more dangerous they are.

 

“I’m here for coffee,” he replies, trying to make an inconspicuous shuffle away from the dangerous one. “Well, more specifically, i’m here for whatever you’re drinking, and possibly just to say hi to people i’m probably going to school with.” Stiles quickly adds, “if you go to school, of course. I mean, it’s okay if you don’t, education comes in many forms and completing high school isn’t the pinnacle of your life time, i’m sure. And that’s fine. Of course. Got to protect your pack and all that.”

 

Somewhere along there, he said something wrong. Because the gang of teens goes from tense to standing and—snarling?—in seconds. Stiles throws his hands up and backs away slowly.

 

“Okay, never mind, that’s fine. I’ll just—you know what? It’s all good. Totally cool. I was just looking for some friends and a good drink, but clearly you guys are busy, so—”

 

“Cut the crap,” the blond hisses, trying to push past Crooked-Jaw to get at Stiles. “What do you _really_ want?”

 

Stiles is starting to get a little freaked out by how aggressive this is getting. He isn’t weak, exactly, but he’s not strong either. And all that training he got back in his home town? Yeah, none of it’s coming back to him.

 

“I really was saying 'hi’, I just moved and—”

 

“Let’s go,” Crooked-Jaw growls, and pushes past Stiles hard enough to knock him back into the table behind him. The rest of the gang stalk out behind him, only one of the girls pausing to shoot him an apologetic smile before running to catch up with the others.

 

And Stiles… Just needs a minute.

 

“Okay… Alright,” he murmurs once he’s sure they’re outside. Everything feels kind of shitty again, and the allure of caffeinated drinks goes stale in comparison for his need for a familiar face. God dammit, his stupid eyes are watering. This is the all-time most pathetic moment of his pathetic life, standing here sniffling in the middle of a cafe.

 

 

Stiles sniffs in hard, wipes his face with a sleeve, and shuffles out of the cafe without ordering anything. There’s at least one familiar face in this stupid town with its stupid shops, and he knows exactly where it is.

 

* * *

 

Behind the cafe, hunched up near the dumpster and the back door, someone lets out a long sigh.

 

“I think we messed up,” he says to the others.

 

“I think he was telling the truth, just awkwardly.”

 

“I could have told you that, and i’m _human_ ,” one of the girls grumbles, pulling out her phone. “We should apologize.”

 

“We don’t know anything for sure, though. Let’s just… Keep an eye on him and see what he does.”

 

“And text Derek,” another reminds him.

 

Scott sighs, again. “And text Derek.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Deputy Derek Hale is on front desk duty today, which isn’t so bad when he can multi-task. It’s been quiet all day, and outside of the arrival of the new sherif this morning, not much has been going on. Even Scott’s frantic messages about some strange teenager trying to make friends with the pack isn’t enough to get Derek worked up. He’ll look into it later, but It’s probably just some innocent human teen—' _No, Scott, you can’t just ask him what he is_.'— visiting from the next town over.

 

Derek is jerked out of his thoughts by the sound of quickly shuffling feet, and suddenly there’s a blur red passing in front of him.

 

It’s a kid. Just… Walking right past his desk into the station.

 

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” He calls out, standing up.

 

The kid stops, a puzzled look crossing his face before an easy grin slips into place.

 

“Whoops, sorry, it’s a habit.”

 

“You have a habit of walking into police stations without permission?”

 

The kid shrugs, and says, “well, yeah, when my dad’s in one.”

 

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that, so stupidly he mutters, “but we didn’t bring anyone in today.”

 

The kid sort of freezes, his face screwed up like he can’t decide if he wants to get pissed or laugh, but before he can do either one, a voice calls out, “Stiles! What are you doing here?”

 

“Hey pops!” The kid—Stiles?—chirps at… Of course, the new sherif. He’s the son of the sherif, and Derek just implied that his dad was brought in for doing something illegal.

 

Derek is _so_ fired.

 

“What’s up, kid?” The sheriff asks, smiling the same easy smile as his son as he approaches the front desk. The kid flashes a grin that somehow manages to strike fear in Derek’s heart—some werewolf he is—and leans against the counter like he owns the place.

 

“Not much, I hear. Apparently you guys haven’t brought anyone in today, huh?” He says, eyes casually sliding to find Derek.

 

He’s so fucking fired.

 

“Well I wouldn’t know,” the sherif grumbles, shooting Derek a disgruntled look. It’s such a dad look that Derek almost glances away when a lump forms in his throat. He doesn’t need reminders like that, he’s finally getting his life together here.

 

“Aren’t they keeping you in the know?” The teen’s voice pipes up again. “Daddy-o.”

 

“Call me that again and I’ll play polka music non-stop for the next two years of your life.”

 

Derek actually snorts, which is probably rude because this is clearly a thing between father and son and he’s just been standing by them awkwardly listening in.

 

The kid—Stiles—seems to appreciate it, though, and something lights up in his eyes that was missing a moment ago. Derek really wants to scent the air, get a read on him, but sniffing at people is a big 'no’ when you’re all perfectly normal humans. No werewolves here.

 

“I see you’ve met Deputy Hale,” the sheriff says, clearing his throat as awkwardly as Derek feels like doing. Shit, he should have just ignored the kid and let him go in.

 

Stiles beams at him, all innocent, and says, “Deputy Hale here was just filling me in on the number of perps brought in today and commenting on how _wonderful_ you are as their new sherif.”

 

There’s no blip in his heartbeat at the lie which is… Disconcerting.

 

“I doubt he said that,” the sheriff scoffs, shooting Derek an amused look.

 

“Not in so many words, no, but the implication was clear. You’re obviously the best sherif in town.”

 

“Stiles, i’m the _only_ sherif in town.”

 

The teen shrugs. “Semantics.”

 

“Why are you here again?”

 

Something deflates around the teen’s shoulders, and Derek doesn’t have to sniff at the guy to smell the waves of disappointment and misery wafting off of him. He’s down right dejected, which makes no sense because it’s not like the sheriff is sending him away, he’s just asking—oh, wait. Scott’s mysterious teenager that they ‘probably upset’ suddenly makes sense.

 

“—around town and stuff. Met some people. Very, uh, cool. Cool kids,” he laughs, it’s fake. “Too cool for me, obviously. I mean, I haven’t earned my street cred here yet, if they knew my nickname back in Santa Barbra they would totally invite me into their pack.”

 

Derek’s eyes flash red hearing that word fall from a stranger’s lips. How does he know? Derek hadn’t smelled anything off about him—nothing to implicate that he knows anything about their world, anyway. He isn’t a wolf. He isn't—how does he _know_?

 

“Stiles, you don’t need this… 'Street cred’ to make friends here,” the sheriff is saying, and thankfully both of them are oblivious to Derek’s sudden discomfort. But it’s still awkward as hell, standing here next to them while they chat.

 

So Derek says, “They’re probably not as cool as you make them out to be,” trying to play them down so this Stiles doesn’t go looking into the pack more than he should. It earns him an almost-fond look from the sheriff, and a curious one from his son. Curious isn’t exactly what Derek was going for, damn it.

 

“You sound like you know exactly who i’m talking about,” Stiles hums, leaning further over the counter and fixing Derek with a stare only other cops could recognize. He’s being interrogated.

 

“I do,” Derek answers, meeting the kid’s eye without missing a beat.

 

“Hang around with a lot of young adults?”

 

“Stiles!” The sheriff yelps, automatically reaching out towards his son like he can stop him before he says anything worse.

 

Stiles barks out a real laugh this time, and leans away in a practiced motion. The tension is gone, now, so that’s an improvement. But Derek is all too eager to get away from this kid. He’s definitely trouble.

 

“I’m kidding, dad, don’t throw a fit. Besides, technically i’m older than them, too. And they called _me_ a creeper.” He sounds a little proud of that last part, but Jesus, his pack needs to learn a little subtly.

 

“You’re older?” Derek asks, looking the teen over and failing to hide his disbelief. Stiles doesn’t seem deterred, however, just faintly amused.

 

“I got held back a year, so, yeah, i’m probably older than those guys,” he says, studying Derek with another curious look. “They’re juniors, right?”

 

“Uh… Most of them, yeah.”

 

“See,” he says to his dad, “not too creepy. We’re all legal, consenting adults here.”

 

The sheriff lets out this sort of pinched noise, like someone just squeezed the air out of him and he honestly can’t believe his son even exists. It’s kind of funny, actually. Which is a weird feeling for Derek.

 

He’s not used to feeling this amused by, um, anything. Especially not thinly veiled insults about his person. Those shouldn’t be funny.

 

“If you’re done implying that my deputy is a pedofile, can we get some lunch?” The sheriff asks, sounding hopeful.

 

Stiles gives Derek one more shit-eating grin and heartily agrees to lunch before dragging his dad out the door and—oh, that was revenge for earlier. Derek gets it now.

 

This kid is going to be a problem.

 

 

* * *

 

It’s quiet the next few days, quiet enough to drive Stiles insane. He wants out. The walls are closing in on him. The floor is lava.

 

“Stiles!”

 

“Yeeeeeep?”

 

“You’re technically an adult now, do you think you could maybe not ruin the living room by our fourth day of living here?” His dad calls out, betraying all imagination and walking on the lava-floor.

 

“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can!” Stiles chants, before leaping gracefully from an arm of the couch to the chair. The leap is graceful, his landing, however, not so much. The entire thing tips, and for a split second Stiles sees two pairs of feet on the lava-floor before he goes down. When he dad reaches him, the second pair are gone.

 

“Alright, i’m kicking you out of the house,” his dad grunts, helping Stiles up from the floor. Something in his expression changes when Stiles feels something wet on his lips. “How do you do this to yourself, kid?”

 

“Id it my node? Id feeds like my node,” Stiles murmurs, reaching up to—yep, that’s blood pouring out his nose. Classy. “Aww, gross. Id’s in my mouth.”

 

His dad is already running off to get some tissue, and pauses to threaten him, “Don’t you dare throw up.”

 

Stiles snorfles some of the blood into his nose—gross, God, so gross—which helps him breath better.

 

 

“I’m not that weak.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

Stiles sticks out his tongue, gets more blood on it, and yeah, maybe he gags a little bit. Totally not throwing up, though. Just bleeding all over the fricken place. Like, his shirt? It’s a limited edition original Batman logo design and its ruined. Stiles is going to cry, forget throwing up. Literal blood and tears all over the place.

 

He hears his dad coming back, and looks up from his bloody shirt with a forlorn expression already in place. Only, his dad isn’t there. No ones there.

 

“Dad?” He tries, refusing to move from his spot. He swears he heard someone coming, a soft pad of feet on wood that—that couldn’t be his dad. The sheriff’s got his work shoes on, and there’s nothing soft about those. In fact, there’s their clunking now.

 

“Hold on, hold on,” his dad says upon entering. “I’m an old man, I can only move so fast.”

 

Stiles just sort of stares at him, even as he presses a cool washcloth to his nose and uses a corner to start cleaning up Stiles’ face.

 

“You alright? You didn’t hit your head, did you?”

 

“I, uh…” Stiles begins, wondering if maybe he _is_ losing it, though. “No, my nose cushioned my fall.”

 

“I know this means you haven’t learned your lesson, and that I’ll probably find you jumping around on the furniture when you’re well into your twenties—” Stiles snorts, and immediately regrets it. “—but can we call it a day for now?”

 

“You kicking me out?” Stiles asks while his dad mops up the new wave of blood from his nose. He notices the cursory glance at his shirt before he pulls the reddened wash cloth away from his face and sighs.

 

“I’ve got a lot of paperwork to fill out, and i’ll be bringing it in to the station later. Why don’t you go get changed, and go for a walk until then?” He suggests tiredly. “Derek mentioned some trails out back in the woods, if you want to give them a try.”

 

“Who the hell is Derek?”

 

“Language,” the sherif grumbles as he holds the cloth away from his body and heads back towards the bathroom. “And it’s Deputy Hale to you.”

 

Stiles blinks. Right, the scruffy guy with a hidden sense of humor m, who thought Stiles was coming in to visit his _imprisoned_ father.

 

“Yeah, no, he’s Derek from now on,” Stiles says, stripping off his shirt as he follows his dad. He’s still not used to the laundry machine being in the downstairs bathroom, so it takes him a minute to remember to just hand his bloodied shirt over to his dad when he walks in.

 

“He’s a deputy, kid, give him a little respect,” his dad chides, snatching the shirt from him and tossing into the washer. “He’s had a… Difficult life, and it’s pretty obvious he’s worked hard to get where he is. The least you can do is use his title.”

 

Stiles frowns, sensing a story here that he knows his dad won’t share without permission. He’ll just have to glean it from some other source. Like maybe police files.

 

“You let me call Flap-Jack Joey, Flack-Jack Joey,” he reminds his dad. “And he used to live on the streets with a drug habit and have pet squirrels or something.”

 

There’s a pinched look on his father’s face now as he digs around in the drier and pulls out a t-shirt. He looks it over before tossing it to Stiles. “That’s… That’s different. He worked hard to, uh, get off the drugs and stuff, and he never had pet squirrels, Stiles. But he was also just a CI, not a cop.”

 

Stiles pulls on the shirt, letting things hang in silence at he thinks. He’s not even sure why he’s arguing about this, it’s not like he knows Derek. Sorry, _Deputy Hale._

 

“Sooo… I should respect him less because his struggles didn’t land him a job at the police station?”

 

“Stiles!”

 

“ _What_?” He grumbles, narrowing his eyes at his dad.

 

“No one 'lands’ a job at a police station, it’s a lot of work and they’ve _earned_ the respect from their citizens. You’ll call him Deputy Hale, unless he says otherwise. Got it?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Stiles decides to let it go.

 

“All hail Deputy Hale.”

 

He’ll mostly let it go.

 

“Get out of the house,” his dad grunts, pushing him out of the bathroom, down the hallway, and out the back door. “Go wander, be careful, don’t get arrested.” 

 

He sounds all gruff and grumpy, but Stiles sees that sneaky smile before the door shuts behind him and he’s freeeeeeeeeee to… go for a walk? Crap, he knew he was going to be bored here until they get the internet hooked up, but hiking? Didn’t his dad read those animal attack reports too? He needs to make sure the guy’s up to date on this stuff, he’s supposed to be the best sheriff ever, not sending his son out to get eaten by—what did they say it was? Mountain lions? 

 

Stiles frowns as he wanders towards the edge of the yard, peering into the shadows of the trees in search of these mystery paths _Deputy Hale_ mentioned. First, he needs to take stock of what he knows about Mountain lions. Wait, Cougars?—not those women who might be too old to wear those tight, neon-pink jogging pants, who used to leer at Stiles back in Santa Barbra. Pumas. Big cats, uuuuh… lone-wolf like, don’t like groups. Or something. Alright, so Stiles needs to look into them more, but he’s going to assume that as long as he leaves them alone, they’ll leave him alone. It works with bees, it should work with giant, apparently man-eating cats. 

 

With that thought, Stiles takes off into the woods, sending off ‘Don’t eat me!’ vibes as much as possible, and, actually, it’s not bad in here. He feels like a layer of grime just sloughed off of him, the air is fresher, the weight of the world is off his shoulders. Not that he had the world on them, really, but new town, new people who kind of hate him… yeah, that was weighing on him a little bit. It makes him think about Joe, who’d be right there beside him, asking if that yellow mushroom is smoke-able—which it’s not, Joe, don’t die for stupid reasons. Joe would make this better, but Joe isn’t here. Joe is probably surfing, or smoking something other than yellow mushrooms, generally having a good time without him, probably. 

 

Stiles kicks a log, sending a very pissed-off chipmunk skittering away with lots of angry noises that sound a lot like, ‘ _You come into my woods, you kick my home! Dishonor on your family_!’ 

 

The chipmunk’s misery keeps Stiles entertained for a good hour. And while he never really finds a path, he does just fine wandering around aimlessly until the trees start to thin. It’s a clearing, which is exciting on its own because Stiles swears he hasn’t seen the sun in six years now, but it gets better. 

 

Because there’s a _house_. 

 

Well, sort of. It’s pretty heavily damaged by what looks like fire, and time. Its got a front porch that looks like an entire family could fit on it, but the boards are rotten and sagging, never mind that half the railing is long gone. The largest window, looking in on what he has to assume was the living room, is oddly one of the only windows unbroken. Stiles frowns as he circles the building, noting the obvious burn marks from where the flames had clawed their way out the windows towards the sky. This was no small fire, especially not with the way the roof is crumpled in, and the entire back of the house looks like someone set off a bomb.

 

Stiles makes his way back around to the front, and dithers a bit. He _could_ go inside. It would be an adventure, a slightly dangerous and trespass-y adventure, but it wouldn’t be boring. 

 

Something growls. 

 

“On the other hand, I should go check on my dad. The sheriff,” he says loudly, because mentioning his dad used to keep the Cougars of Santa Barbra from getting their claws in him, so it’s worth a try. 

 

“I’ll just… go… see the _sheriff_ now,” he adds, still talking loudly as he glances around and backs away from the creepy house. He doesn’t see anything, but Stiles knows better than to trust that. Wild animals are ninjas, and if it’s already growling, Stiles has somehow inadvertently broken the sacred rule. He’s bothered the Mountain Lion. He’s broken their trust, and now he’s dinner. 

  
Stiles doesn’t want to be dinner. 

 

 

So, he bolts. 

 

Just runs, arms waving at his sides because he’s read somewhere that angry animals won’t attack if you look bigger than them, breath coming in short pants of, “Oh shit, oh shit, ohshitohshitoshit!” 

 

And he swears to god he hears something crashing through the underbrush behind him, but it’s not like he’s going to stop and look, so he’s going to just assume that stopping means death, which means he’s not doing it. Also, he’s not that great at running. Never had to do it much in the city, and their school had a choice between basketball and football. One he couldn’t jump high enough for, the other, well… muscles. He no have. 

 

The growling is back, and Stiles puts on a burst of speed when the bright green lawn in his new back yard springs into view. The lawn isn’t safety, though, so Stiles keeps on going, right through the back door—shut it! close it!—and then he drops, wheezing and dying on the kitchen floor.

 

“Stiles?” his dad calls out, head popping through the doorway leading to the living room. “Jesus, what happened?” 

 

Between one wheeze, and a cough, Stiles decides something very important. He’s going to lie.

 

“Decided… to try… jogging,” he gurgles, and manages to flash a lop-sided grin while he pushes himself up enough to lean against the counter. 

 

“Uh… alright, but you need to pace yourself,” replies his dad, giving him an indecipherable look. “Get some water in you, too, you don’t look good, son.” 

 

Stiles nods a few times—too many times, ugh. “Water—right… yeah.” 

 

“And maybe something better than jeans to run in?” 

 

“Right.” 

 

“Did you take the paths Derek mentioned, or jog through town?” 

 

Stiles gives his father a look, and waves his arms at him, “Do I look like I can handle an interrogation right now?”

 

“It was just a question,” the sherif grumbles, turning away to leave him to his business. Stiles sags against the counter, ready to give in to the sweet, sweet call of cold linoleum, when his dad’s head pops back around the corner. 

 

“You should be careful out there—“

 

“Oh my god, dad! I’m _fine_.” 

 

The older man narrows his eyes. 

 

“Dad, seriously, I jogged. It sucked, I probably won’t do it again, but that’s all there was to it.” 

 

“Alright,” he concedes, shaking his head. “You’d tell me if anything happened, right?” 

 

Stiles nods. “Yeah, of course, dad.” 

 

He nods too many times. 

 

Ugh. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Derek is fuming by the time he reaches his apartment, almost vibrating out of his skin in anger. 

 

How dare that skinny little idiot—wait, okay, don’t start thinking of him like that, it’ll pop out one day in conversation and he _is_ the sheriff’s son. How dare that _kid_ go poking around his family’s home? 

 

Derek slams the door closed behind him, and throws his keys into the bowl with a satisfying clatter. No, not satisfying enough. Derek wants to tear apart something, his claws are already extending at the thought of it. It’s too bad there isn’t much in the loft to work with, since he did just move in. Eyeing the couch, he considers ripping open one the couch cushions to slake his need, but the pack would whine and simper at him, not understanding, as usual. His pack of teenagers. Honestly, what was he _thinking_?

 

Speaking of annoying teenagers. 

 

_That idiot_ , he thinks bitterly as he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it aside. Did he seriously just walk up to the house? Derek could smell the curiosity on him as he paced around and muttered things about the damage. Like Derek’s house was a side-show act, there to entertain _idiot_ children with their morbid curiosity. _Everyone_ knows not to go there, everyone know that… that he… no, that’s wrong. Of course the kid doesn’t know, he’s new in town. He probably just wandered over by accident and had no idea what he was stumbling on to. 

 

Derek deflates against the kitchen counter, feeling hollow where the anger left him. It had been so easy to let the transformation take him over, just one excuse, and not even a good one, and he let the wolf chase an innocent teen through the woods. Derek groans, and sags until his forehead rests against the cool stone of the counter-top. He’s done a bad thing, and he can’t even apologize for it. Not without giving away their secret, and probably freaking the kid out more. He should have never let the wolf take over, he could have bitten him, or worse.

 

_‘One of these days you’re going to lose it,’ Peter croaks through the blood bubbling up past his lips. He’s grinning, in Derek’s memory, like he orchestrated all of this, like he wants to die. ‘You’re going to lose the last thing keeping you sane… and I wish I could see it.’_

 

 

Derek shudders, pushing away from the counter and abandoning the kitchen all together. He’s even less hungry now, the memory of Peter’s blood under his nails for days after he kills him, he just couldn’t get it out. And no one understood, then, either. His pack of teenagers, his young, innocent pack that’s seen a lot of trouble, but never quite loses hope. That last thing.   
  
Derek falls into bed, and wonders if maybe he lost it a long, long time ago.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Happy. He feels happy, like it’s bubbling out of him in laughter and he’s running again. Not like before, no growls, or bad feelings. He’s running along side them, and they’re so beautiful he wants to cry. Dark fur, bright eyes and goofy-dog grins. The most beautiful wolves. He wants to cry._

 

_So he does. Stiles runs, crying as his fingers trail over their backs before letting them run ahead. They always were faster than him, and he’s got time to get to where they’re going. All the time in the world._

 

Stiles _was_  happily dreaming away, sprawled out across his bed on his stomach, when his dad wraps a hand around his ankle and gives it a little tug. He tries to ignore it because there's no way it's time to get up yet, and he's already losing focus on his dreams. Something about wolves and god, his legs ache. He’s never running again… hmmm, but running…

 

Stiles presses his face deeper into his pillow, and lets the images drag him under again. 

 

His dad tugs on his ankle again, harder this time. 

 

"Mmghble! Daaad, come on," he gurgles, trying to wiggle his leg free from his father's grip. He usually wasn't this persistent. Or cold. Kind of clammy, too. 

 

Stiles asks into his pillow, "You sick?" Before turning to blink sleepily at 

 

Nothing. 

 

Nothing's there. 

 

But he can _feel_ the grip on his ankle, tightening now that its got his attention and—"oh Fuuuck!" He shrikes as nothing yanks him out of his bed to the floor. The sheets tear as his nails catch on them—he's clawing for dear life but the grip is strong and it's not just about getting him out of bed, it's dragging him across the floor. Which fucking hurts, by the way. He's going to have carpet burns on the entire front side of his body when this is over. 

 

If he _survives_. 

 

Which he might now that he's got a good grip on door jab now, fingers almost sinking into the wood, he's holding on so tightly. 

 

"Let go let go let go let go let go let—!" 

 

His dad's voice echoes down the hallway, sounding confused and worried, "Stiles? What's going on?" 

 

Stiles opens his mouth to scream for help, to ask where the hell his dad's been when he's being dragged away, and please, for the love of God, shoot it! But the nothing uncurls its clammy fingers from Stiles' ankle, letting his leg flop against the floor unceremoniously. 

 

And he just lays there, because he's going to need a minute. His dad's finally there, and yep, he's got his gun ready even if the rest of him's not. 

 

"Nice boxers, dad,” just pops out of his mouth.

 

"What the hell, kid?!" He barks, holding his gun down and to the side as he ducks a head into Stiles' new room to check for bad guys. "You were screaming bloody murder one second and now you're just..." His eyes go wide as he looks Stiles over, because yeah, he's still holding on to the door frame and just laying there. He must see something, because the switch goes back on again. 

 

"Where'd he go?" He asks sharply, suddenly 100% police force again. 

 

"N-no idea," Stiles answers, and it's not a lie, really. He has no idea where the nothing went, and no idea how to explain that it was _literally_ nothing grabbing his ankle and... Jesus, Stiles isn't going to be able to sleep for ten years. It doesn't really matter, probably, because his dad's running down the stairs to search the house and Stiles needs to let go before he can't uncurl his fingers anymore.  

 

Sitting up, Stiles takes stock of himself to see just what got his dad into cop-mode again. There's the rug burn, which he was 100% right about, cool, thanks. He's going to need some cream for that or something, because his entire chest is red like he spilled Kool-Aid down his front. His hands are stiff from holding on for too long, and there's some blood from one of his finger nails being ripped back too far. 

 

"Awwgross. Gross gross, oh my god," he whines, purposefully looking away. If he pretends it's not there, hanging off his finger—ohmygodhe'sgoingtobarf—then it doesn't exist. 

 

What does exist, however, is a hand-shaped bruise around his ankle. That must have been the thing that got his dad's attention, because there's no mistaking those shapes. You've got fingers, palm, thumb, the works. Apparently, Nothing has a hand print. 

 

Stiles decides that, for right now, he's not thinking about the nothing aspect of it all. His dad's not going to believe him, anyway, so he might as well just stick with saying he didn't see who it was. Not a lie, believable since he was _woken up_ by this thing, and slightly problematic because he can hear his dad talking on the phone to someone. 

 

Stiles creeps—limps—closer to the stairs to listen in. 

 

"—was screaming. My kid doesn't scream for no reason, there has to be at least a spider or—"

 

Stiles flushes and mutters to himself, "Thanks dad." 

 

"—a giant bruise on his ankle... I don't know, Derek, there's no sign of anybody entering the house. The doors are still locked, the Windows don't look like they've been touched... No, I know... I can ask him, but the kid's pretty shook up." 

 

Stiles tries not to feel bitter about his father telling Deputy Hale—see, he can be respectful—that he's basically a fainting maiden over spiders, and not handling this with much manliness. He is shaken, though. Especially after yesterday with the running and the wild animal ninja that he pissed off at the creepy house and, wow, this town has not been as boring as Stiles thought it would be. 

 

“Sure,” his dad’s saying, “Come right over.” 

 

Now Stiles panics, because Hottie Mc-Deputy Hale is coming over? He’s in his boxers—actually, so is his dad, jesus, he needs clothes, and coffee, and some hair gel, and a much more solid story about what happened. 

 

Suddenly, his dad is right there, and damn it all, his heart is going to explode if this keeps up. “Stiles, Derek is—“

 

“Coming over to check the house for _spiders_ ,” Stiles snaps, giving his father a wounded look that goes ignored. 

 

“He’s going to check the street and the woods around the house first, then we’re going to figure out where they got in.”

 

Stiles, for the life of him, can’t figure out how to make this work so that he’s not _insane_. He knows all the doors and windows were locked last night, he went around and—wait. 

 

“My window,” he blurts out. 

 

His dad’s eyebrows slowly rise. He’s not impressed, surprise. 

 

“It was hot—I was hot after all that running,” Stiles tries to explain, limping back to the doorway of his room. Something stops him from going in, though. It’s just… a bad feeling. It’s not even really his room yet, there’s no solidarity between him and the walls like he had with his old room. He’d trust _that_ room not to let evil Nothings in. But, right, the window. Totally wide open, friendly breeze blowing the curtain in like a chipper little fricken ghost. Stiles is so done with this room right now. “Right, there… so, that’s how. Tell Derek to stay home.” 

 

“ _Deputy Hale_ ,” His father corrects, stepping into the room and giving it another look over. He frowns down at the floor for a moment, before stepping up to the window and inspecting it. “No shoe prints or dirt.” 

 

Stiles wonders what his dad was looking at by his bed, if it wasn’t evidence of the nothing. But, yeah, no. He can’t do it. He’s not going in this room right now. 

 

“Can you just grab me some clothes?” he asks, shifting to his other foot as the bruised ankle starts to ache. “If we’re entertaining a guest any minute now, i’d like to be dressed.”

 

“What’s bleeding?” his dad asks suddenly, turning away from the window with his cop-scowl on. Stiles kind of hates that look, it means his dad’s in a mood, and usually not up for Stiles’ usual tone and lack of candor. It’s been the reason for some of their more epic fights, actually, and that’s really the last thing he needs right now, on top of everything else this stupid town has dished up. 

 

 

“My finger,” he answers honestly, because there’s no point in hiding it. Even if he’s still pretending it’s fine. “Nail got bent backwards, I guess. How’d you know?”

 

“There’s blood on your carpet,” his dad explains, the cop-scowl softening as he looks his son over. Something sad creeps into his eyes, and Stiles knows he’s filling himself up with self-doubt again. Every time Stiles has gotten hurt since his mother died, his dad freaks out, does all the right things, then doubts everything he’s done and acts like he’s a failure. While Stiles knows his mother would be hugging him right now, telling him things to ease his mind, and probably listening to his explanation about the Nothing without a single doubt in the world, his dad is doing just fine, too. He knows he cares, and that’s all that matters. 

 

“I’m fine,” he says. It’s mostly true. “Just need some clothes, a good Band-Aid, and coffee. That’d be good.” 

 

The sheriff looks down at himself, sighs, and runs a hand over his head. “Alright, getting dressed sounds good. I’ll just—“

 

“Can you grab my clothes,” Stiles blurts out again, hating his stupid voice for wavering. “Just, while you’re right there…” 

 

He sees the moment his dad gets it, and blushes hard. It’s not like he’s afraid of the room, it’s just not… right anymore. Besides, his dad is closer to the dresser, so, whatever. He’s fine. 

 

“Here you go, kid,” he says, shoving a pile of clothes into his arms as he passes through the doorway. Stiles stumbles back, giving him a shy nod before he limps into the bathroom to change. 

 

 

By the time he makes it out again, he’s got five Band-Aids wrapped around his—grosssogross—finger, hopefully enough to keep the rest of his nail on, a pair of blue shorts, and t-shirt with a t-rex on it, waving its tiny arms and crying. It reflects his mood perfectly when he gets downstairs to see Deputy Hale in his kitchen, drinking coffee with his dad. The deputy stops talking the moment Stiles steps into view, and snaps his head around to stare at him like he’s the second coming of Jesus. Okay, maybe not quite that grand, but there’s some surprise and flaring of nostrils—weird. 

 

“You’re bleeding,” he states, and once again, Stiles is startled by how gentle his voice is. He looks like the growly type, and yet… 

 

“Okay, now you’re doing it? What is this, voodoo day?” Stiles asks, sidling into the room and brushing past them both to get to the coffee. “What’s next, you’re going to read my palm?”

 

His dad gives him a warning look before moving away from the coffee pot. “Stiles…” 

 

“What? You started it, being all amazing detective.” Stiles waves him off, and pours himself a cup of sweet nectar of the holy beans. 

 

“You got blood on the floor, it wasn’t that amazing. Certainly not voodoo.”

 

“Definitely not voodoo,” Deputy Hale confirms, oddly. Like he would _know_. 

 

“Right, okay, no voodoo,” Stiles agrees, meeting the deputy’s eye over their coffee cups. There’s something about him that seems weirdly familiar, like he knows how he smells, or something. Or feels? 

 

_Like fingers brushing over fur, they’re running ahead. All but one._

 

“—breaking and entering,” his dad’s saying, frowning at his deputy. Stiles breaks eye contact, and ducks his head. He has no idea what that was, but weird, and uncomfortable are two very good words to describe it. 

 

“Well, I didn’t sense—see anything in the woods, and there’s nothing on the wall outside your house. I can have a cruiser drive past your house every hour, but other than that, there’s not much we can do if we can’t find any evidence.” 

 

Stiles kind of wants to get pissy with the deputy, because it sounds like he’s calling Stiles a liar. But, he kind of _is_ a liar, and there kind of isn’t any evidence because there was _nothing there_. Cursing under his breath, Stiles takes a huge gulp of coffee, and moves to abandon them to their musings. 

 

“Your leg…” 

 

Stiles blinks, and finds himself looking into those insane eyes again. They’re like… something beautiful and poetic that Stiles can’t think of because, wow. 

 

“Uh, what?” he mumbles. 

 

“It’s hand print,” Deputy Hale points out, like Stiles hasn’t noticed yet. 

 

“Uh huh. More like ‘Drag me To Hell’ than ‘Supernatural’, I know.” 

 

The deputy looks even more confused. 

 

“An angel didn’t save me?” He tries again, miming grabbing with his coffee-less hand. 

 

There’s seriously something going on with this man’s poor eyebrows. Stiles should call the police. Eyebrow abuse. 

 

“I’m just going to… not be here anymore,” Stiles finishes, gesturing vaguely at the door. “Thanks for your help, Deputy Hale.” 

 

The deputy’s eyebrows pinch together, then slowly lose their sharpness. He almost looks happy to be called by his title, only to ruin it by saying, “you can call me Derek, when i’m off duty.” 

 

Stiles looks directly at his dad.

 

“Yes, okay, you _win_ ,” his dad groans, rolling his eyes and avoiding Derek’s questioning looks. The poor guy is probably wondering what kind of crazy family just moved into their crazy town. And horrible grabby Nothing, and possibly V-for Vendetta Mountain Lions aside, Stiles can’t help but think that they might actually fit in here with these weirdos. Maybe not with the teens he met at the cafe, but he’s still got an entire school to go to in a few weeks, and he’s liking the police department so far. Everyone he’s met from it, anyway. Like, one person, okay, but he’s not bad.

 

 

Not bad at all.


	2. Ghosts Could Happen to Anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles forgets to sleep, procrastinates, runs for his life, and eats.   
> Derek worries. A bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title ripped off from Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.

 

 

 

 

 

Things don't exactly settle, as much as hunker down and lurk. 

 

Stiles just can't seem to find his zen after the incident, even with all of Joe's texted advice on how to handle the Nothing in his room, and whether ice is good for hand-shaped bruises or not. Yes, Stiles called Joe the second his dad went outside to talk to Deputy Hale so he could have a proper freak-out about almost dying and _invisible fucking ghost monsters_. Joe has always been one to believe in the weirder sides of things, just like his mom did before she died. She probably would have told him the same thing about smudging his room, getting some sage for his window sills, making a hex bag or something.

 

Then again, some of Joe's theories have been a little over the top before. It's definitely not aliens, in this case. Well, it's  _probably_ not aliens. 

 

But, even then, it's not just the creepy ankle-grabbing thing that's making it hard for him to calm down. After a report on his 'assault' is filed later that afternoon, police cruisers start creeping by the house for the rest of the day, and probably all through the night. Stiles isn't sure, since he spends the next 24 hours unpacking every single book in the house without stopping to eat or sleep, much to his dad's concern.

 

If he notices the pile of books left outside of Stiles' door come morning, he doesn't comment on if. 

 

Instead, he gets ready to go work, orders him to take a nap, and places Stiles under house arrest, because the house has been _super_  safe so far. But, whatever, his dad's already set up a back up plan called: Bully Deputy Hale—eyebrow extraordinaire—into swinging by every so often to make sure Stiles is okay while he's at work. 

 

Which maybe means that Stiles spends all morning darting across the living room to check the police cruisers as they go by, just in case. After the third one, and no Hale, Stiles decides to do the mature thing and distract himself from the distraction that's not distracting enough to distract him from the major problem of not really having a bedroom right now. Thanks ghost thing. 

 

 

"Don't go into the woods, man." 

 

Stiles rolls his eyes at Joe's tone, tucks the phone between his ear and his shoulder, and kicks his feet up on the couch. As much as his friend drives him up the wall–ironic, he knows— thank god for Joe. Because Stiles is pretty sure he'd be compelled out of his mind at this point if he hadn't called to check up on him. 

 

"Dude, i'm not planning to," he replies. "Probably ever again." 

 

"I don't know," Joe hums, followed by the crinkling sound of what Stiles recognizes. Joe and his massive bags of potato chips. "M'pretty sure the only thing that works on you is reverse psychology." 

 

"Soo, tell me to go _into_ the woods?" Stiles suggests. "No, wait, even better: tell me a fairytale about it to keep my morals in good standing, or whatever it is those crazy old people were trying to do with that hot-metal shoe bullshit." 

 

"That's a good one, man, don't diss it." 

 

"I'm under the impression that reading Grimm's Fairytales to children is considered abusive behavior these days, unless you do it ironically." 

 

"Man, you're just mad 'cuz Disney didn't cut off the evil step sister's toes," His friend chuckles. "Which is dumb, because Disney movies are so far removed from the actual stories that they're their own thing— _and_ they've gone so far past the point of accuracy it's pointless to compare them, dude. They moved into the realm of such strict political correctness that it's turned into some sort of unhealthy, hyper-vigilant paranoia instead of a moral compass disguised as a 'fun' story about witches and magic eggs and shit." 

 

 

Stiles blinks a few times. 

 

"How high are you right now? Because the last time you went this deep, you started ranting about the use of myths and monsters in modern society and I think you might have actually killed Gillian for a whole minute there. Like, her heart actually stopped, you murdered her to death with overflow of words." 

 

There's another loud crackle across the line, and a forlorn sigh, "Not high enough to murder. Yet."

 

"Need more chips, huh?" Stiles teases, letting his eyes fall closed as a wave of home-sickness washes over him. Distracting himself has its pros and cons, no matter what he chooses. The books remind him of his mom, his room is the Danger Zone, woods scary, Joe... Joe is another reminder that this ain't Kansas anymore.  

 

And he _should_ be there right now, he was always the one who grabbed a second bag of chips for Joe. He was always the one thinking ahead, getting everyone together to hang out on the only day where all their other activities didn't overlap. He was their event planner, ring-leader, chip bringer. He was happy there and—Stiles used to be someone there, now he's nothing. Everyone in town already seems to hate him on sight, which would be sort of amazing—hive mentality? Science!—if it wasn't aimed at him. 

 

It doesn't help that Joe is the only one who's gotten back to him since he moved away. Granted, it's only been a few days, but Stiles knows Joe has hung out with their other friends recently, since one of them sells him the weed he's currently smoking. 

 

"I sense that, like, you're freaking out again," Joe says right in his ear. "Stop it dude." 

 

"Stop being a creepy psychic and go get your chips," he snaps, and yeah, no. Not good. "Sorry... I'm just... I'm _freezing_ , actually. What the fuck?" 

 

"S'okay man, I know you're stressed out... You okay?" 

 

Shivering, Stiles sits up with a gasp and goes very still. His breath is actually clouding up the air in front of him, it's that cold.

 

"I... Uh..." His throat clicks when he swallows nervously. "I'm going to go find a hoodie and maybe go wander around the woods for—"

 

"Dude!"

 

Stiles barks out a slightly manic laugh, "I'm kidding, just kidding. I'm pulling your leg—okay, no, too soon. I just too sooned myself." 

 

"Just... Don't go in the woods, ok? Seriously, listen to me for once," Joe demands, his 'this means business' voice startling Stiles out of the beginnings of another flash-back of the leg-grabbing Nothing. 

 

As if thinking about is a summons, something thumps on the floor above him and he nearly screams.

 

"I'm still hobbling, anyway, so i'm not going anywhere that might require running," he replies, feigning nonchalance as best he can. He's on his feet now, eyes glued to the ceiling. 

 

Joe doesn't seem completely convinced, but he's desperate enough for his chips to let Stiles go with one last warning and a promise of contact within the hour. 

 

Stiles hangs up quickly, and glances down at the screen. He should probably call his dad, but what would he even say? 

 

'Hi dad! So, something went thump upstairs and your sort of an adult son is terrified of it. Please abandon you're massive workload and come look around for an invisible being. Oh, and sorry I lied to you about it.'

 

The thump happens again, louder. 

 

 

His ankle still feels weak and shaky when he leaves his weight on it for too long, and the finger where his nail got mostly torn off is so oversensitive that even the smallest bump has him tearing up. Stiles isn't in any condition to run, or fight this thing, and even if he was, he has no idea how. 

 

Sage. 

 

Everyone keeps saying sage. Stiles can get sage. All he has to do is grab his keys, and that hoodie—

 

Something creaks, and suddenly there's footsteps darting across the floor above him towards the stairs.

 

Stiles freezes, locks his eyes on the stairs leading to the second floor, and considers the facts. 

 

 

1: There's no way that's his dad. Literally no way.

 

2: It originated in his room, which means his room is obviously built over a hell hole.

 

3: Get the fuck out of the house. Get out. Get out. _Get out!_  

 

 

Forgoing the hoodie, Stiles makes a mad dash for the door, scooping up his keys and wallet before bursting onto the porch and slamming the door behind him. 

 

He takes a deep breath, and another. And another. "God da—"

 

**SLAM!**

 

Stiles screams, propelled off the porch by the sheer force of whateverthefuckthatis smashing into the door behind him. And he doesn't care if he looks insane anymore, he's taking his jeep, and buying sage in bulk.

 

 

Stiles is halfway across town before he realizes he has no shoes on, and it's a good 90° outside. 

 

 

* * *

 

Derek wasn't completely sure what to expect at the pack meeting the day after the call to the sheriff's house, but he's pretty sure it wasn't this. 

 

Upon their arrival to his loft, Scott immediately turns to Lydia and Erica and starts _whining_ about how unsafe it is to trust people blindly. Not only is it irony-laden, but both Erica and Lydia look about two seconds away from ripping Scott a new one for the sheer hypocrisy. 

 

Derek does the honorable thing, and saves his ass. "Alright, what were we complaining about this early in the morning?" 

 

Boyd sweeps past him, muttering, "Hell if I know," and Isaac follows him into the kitchen with a shrug.

 

"That kid is stirring up trouble!"

 

Derek narrows his eyes, and actually has to think back through the past few days. "Stiles? The Sheriff's son?" 

 

"Scott's got it in his head that all bad things that happen after their arrival are somehow related," Lydia explains dryly. "This includes his microwave dying this morning, if that gives you some perspective." 

 

Erica pipes up, " _and_ I was called 'stupid' for mentioning that my nail polish started chipping earlier. It could _totally_ be that skinny little dweeb's fault!" 

 

"Can we refrain from the name calling?" Derek sighs, already reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. With this pack, it doesn't take long for the migraines to start. "I have to look his father in the eye in less than an hour, I'd rather not be thinking of his kid as 'skinny little dweeb'." 

 

"Dude—"

 

"Scott, do not call me dude." 

 

"You need to get Parrish to look into his records," Scott continues, completely earnest, and completely missing the point. 

 

Well, actually, that's not completely true. Scott has a million reasons not to trust someone new in town, as does most of the pack. Everyone else, however, has gotten a lot better at handling this kind of situation while Scott basically goes into his own little world of paranoia.  

 

Derek could leave it, just ignore Scott's slightly insane claims that some random, human teenager is causing microwaves to combust. Or, he could be a better Alpha and put these worries to rest before Scott does something stupid. Like attack the poor kid.

 

_Like you did?_

 

Right. 

 

"Alright, I'll look into the two of them," he says, putting his hands up in surrender. "But so far, they seem pretty average. Unfortunately average, actually."

 

Boyd snorts, apparently done raiding Derek's kitchen and back to add his two cents. "It's only been a day and a half of working with a new sheriff and we've already had two scares." 

 

"'Scares'?" Scott frowns. "What do you mean?" 

 

Derek narrows his eyes at his beta while Boyd takes a bite out of his freshly made sandwich, and stares right back at him. 

 

None of them fucking listen to him, seriously. 

 

"Just... a few close calls with being discovered, like Parrish setting his paperwork on fire thanks to _someone_ calling him and telling him to get a pregnancy test kit." 

 

"I _told_ him it wasn't for me, I needed to test something," Lydia sniffs. 

 

Erica laughs, "You mean, like, for _pregnancy_?" 

 

"Like my weird uncle who is too scared to go into the doctors yet to check for prostate cancer, so I told him that there's been cases of positive pregnancy tests being used as proof. My mom and I were going to test it out tonight, then hog-tie him and drive him to the hospital ourselves." 

 

Erica whistles in her usual show of appreciation for violence, and Scott starts to automatically protest 'hog-tying' anyone, ever. 

 

Losing interest fast, Derek pulls out his phone to check how much time he has before he needs to put on the uniform and head out. On screen, two texts show up from the sheriff himself. One from this morning, the other only a minute ago. The man _does_ have scarily good timing for these kinds of things, but Derek isn't about to hop on Scott's paranoia train just yet. 

 

SHERIFF: _Sorry to bother you with this but could you do me a favor? I'm worried about my son after yesterday and i'd feel a hell of a lot better if it was you swinging by the house while i'm gone. You've at least met him and gotten to know his personality better than any of the other deputies. I need someone who'll believe him if he comes running out of the house_ _screaming_. 

 

SHERIFF: _I'll see if I can get you overtime for it. Let me know._  


 

Derek bites his lip, and considers it. Sure, he doesn't exactly want to take the extra time on his route to swing by the house of an irritating teenager. But, he also remembers the stench of the kid's fear when Derek walked into his house the other day. That, on top of chasing him through the woods for not knowing something only people from Beacon Hills knew, is enough to convince Derek that he owes Stiles Stilinksi a favor. Or, preferably, he owes his father a favor. 

 

' _Absolutely, don't worry about it. Usual drive by?'_ He texts, wondering if that will be enough. He could probably scent the area from the car if he leaves the window open, but that's a little obvious should anyone stop and look at what he's doing. He doesn't want to spook the kid again, though, so creeping around the house is probably a bad idea. The drive by will have to do, hopefully. 

 

"—won't even tell me." 

 

Derek tunes back into the conversation with a frown. 

 

"Who won't tell you what?" He asks, furrowing his brow at Scott. 

 

"Deaton. I asked him if he had information on the Stilinski's, and he acted all weird and said something like, 'not enough, yet.' Like there might something to know... Maybe? He's confusing." 

 

"I have never once heard that man give a straight answer," admits Derek, glancing down when his phone vibrates. 

 

SHERIFF: _Drive by should be fine. I'll call you if he doesn't answer his phone when I check in. Thanks a bunch for helping me out. He's one goofy kid, but he's mine._  


 

"What's making you smile like that?" He hears Lydia inquire. 

 

"Nothing." Derek shoves his phone into his pocket, glaring at the lot of them. "I have to get ready to go, so, if you two are done raiding my kitchen—" Boyd and Isaac shrug. "—and the rest of you have nothing else to say, I'd like to get dressed and go to work now." 

 

Several of the beta's put their hands up in surrender as they pile out the door, muttering about his shitty attitude. He chooses to ignore it, because while he is their alpha, he also has a shitty attitude. Sometimes. 

 

 

After the last of them shuffles out the door, he has twenty minutes to get dressed, growl at the empty coffee pot, and drive three miles over the speed limit so he has time to stop at the small cafe wedged between the book shop and the much-hated musical instrument store. After that, there's just enough time to grab a bagel on his way through the break room, and then he's officially on duty. Derek only spares a moment to take a look over the files on his desk—cold cases he pokes his nose into when things get a little slow around the station—before he checks in with dispatch, and heads out to his cruiser. 

 

Once he hits the road, Derek turns on the radio and listens to the crackle of reports as storefronts pass and people nod their usual 'hello' to him. It's still strange to him how much this town has changed after he became a deputy. Gone are the suspicious looks, the nasty or pitying whispers, or even the numerous refusals of service. Once he was cleared of all charges for a murder he obviously didn't commit, it took a long time for people to start looking at him like a Hale again, rather than a criminal. 

 

Now, he's once again a member of the community. The last living Hale in Beacon Hills, and an honorable member of their police force thanks to the help of their previous Sheriff. It seems to make them happy, and in turn, it kind of makes Derek happy, too. Happier, at least.

 

'— _got a 10-38... Some kind of van, white smoke coming out of the back_.' 

 

Derek recognizes the voice as Deputy Clark, and forces himself not to turn it off. For some reason, they don't seem to get along very well, even when Derek does his best to be polite. He even tried to crack a joke for her once, but she just sort of stared at him before muttering something rude in Spanish and walking away. 

 

' _10-4... Smoke from exhaust?_ ' Dispatch replies, sounding bored. 

 

' _Nuh-uh, from the back doors. They're pulling over now—Jesus! It's pouring out._ '

 

' _What the hell?'_ Now dispatch is getting interested. _'10-9... Say again? From the doors?'_  


 

Derek snorts and picks up his radio. "This is unit 3 speaking: the van wouldn't happen to be lime green, would it?" 

 

There's a pause before the deputy replies slowly, ' _Yeeess_?' 

 

"That's Greenberg's van. He installed a smoke machine for some reason, and keeps driving around with it on for the 'effect.' He's already been pulled over a few times, thanks to the damn thing decreasing visibility for the drivers around him. I don't know why he keeps doing it, but he's already got two strikes against him." Derek shrugs to himself. "I'd say bring him in this time, put a little fear of the law into him." 

 

There's staticky laughter from dispatch, and what sounds like a grunt of approval from Deputy Clark before she cuts out. Probably already scaring the shit out of the teen right now, which is something Derek wouldn't mind seeing. 

 

Speaking of teenagers... 

 

The cruiser rolls to a stop right in front of the house that had been sitting empty for years before the new Sheriff bought it. He vaguely remembers how it once looked a little worse for wear before the previous owner spent a lot of time and money fixing it up, but he's never paid that much attention to the human comings and goings of Beacon Hills while he was here. There was enough going on in the supernatural world without worrying about what the more benign creatures have been up to. Then again, maybe there _is_ something to it after all, because the house gives Derek a bad feeling. 

 

Like there's something old here, something that's clawing its away out of the cold, hard ground and it's really pissed about _everything_.

 

It gave him that exact feeling the first time he skirted the property after meeting the new Sheriff and chairing his son through the woods. It gave him a worse feeling the day he got a call about an intruder, and instead of answering any of their questions, the damn kid lied and twisted his words enough to give them no working leads whatsoever. 

 

Derek scowls at the house, and closes his eyes for a moment so he can focus his hearing. 

 

There's nothing more active than the refrigerator in the house, which means something's really wrong because Derek knows teenagers, and they're never this quiet. Scanning the house again, Derek notes the lack of vehicles in the driveway, the fresher notes of some kind of coolant trailing away from the house, and fear. 

 

There's a sharp spike of adrenalin and sweat around the front of the house, which can't mean anything good. 

 

Opening his eyes, Derek leans put the window to check the asphalt for any signs of someone driving off at a high speed. There's nothing on the road, and the driveway is free of tire marks as well.

 

Wait...

 

There were _two_ vehicles the last time Derek was here, and he's pretty sure he saw the truck in the department's parking lot a few minutes ago. That leaves the ugly, old jeep for the kid, and it's not here. 

 

Great. 

 

Derek pulls out his phone and shoots the sheriff a quick text: ' _No jeep at home, no sign of kid. Should I follow?_ ' 

 

A shiver runs through him, and he's not sure why, but he feels compelled to look at the house again. There's no one in there, he _knows_ that there's no one there. 

 

Then why does it feel like someone's watching him? 

 

' _DEREK! ANSWER YOUR PHONE!_ ' Erica's voice screams, followed by a bellow of laughter before it repeats the shriek a few more times. Snarling, Derek swipes to answer, silently promising Erica a slow death for changing his ringtone, yet again. 

 

"What?" He snaps.

 

"His jeep isn't there?" 

 

Shit. The sheriff. Right. 

 

"I—sorry sir—yes. I mean no, it's not in the driveway," he stammers out. 

 

There's a murmured collection of swears before Derek's listening to the man dial his son's phone on another line.  

 

Derek waits, holding his breath. If Stiles answers, he's is in a shit-load of trouble for driving off when he's supposed to stay home. If he doesn't, Derek's in trouble for not getting here sooner, and the sheriff's one and only son might have been successfully kidnapped by a mysterious home-invader. Either way, Derek's bad feeling isn't going away.

 

 

"Hiiii _—"_  


"Stiles?! Where the hell—"

"—you've reached the party sex line of Stiles Stilinski! If you know your party's extension, press one! If you don't, tough luck buddy, just you and your hand tonight—" 

 

The breath he's been holding rushes out of him in a snort that he tries to politely cover with a cough. It's not even actually funny, but what the hell _is_ this kid? Luckily, his snort seems to go unheard as the voicemail beeps, and the sheriff launches into his promises of murder and grounding and ' _you better be okay's._ '

 

 It feels incredibly awkward to listen to, but there's not much Derek can do when the Sheriff's still on the line with him. 

 

"Deputy Hale?" 

 

"Yes sir." 

 

The sheriff sighs, and Derek can feel how long-standing his exhaustion is over the phone. Like this might not be the first time his son has disappeared this way, and probably not the last. "Do you have any idea where a teenager might go in this town? I don't... I don't know the area well enough." 

 

"I'll take a look at the usual spots and report back to you immediately," Derek responds, already typing in the information about the coolant-leaking Jeep into his laptop. Even if it doesn't make it into the final report, for obvious reasons, Derek likes to have it filed somewhere for future reference. "Do you want me to call a unit over to go over your house for any signs of a beak in or struggle?" 

 

"No, not yet," Sheriff Stilinski grunts. "I don't want to waste police time if it turns out he went out to get a burger or something. I'll really start to worry if he's not found eating something within the hour."

 

Derek agrees with the sheriff, promises to report back as soon as he knows anything, and hangs up. It takes a few tries, but Derek leans out the window to catch the scent of the coolant again, and follows it until he reaches the center of town. By then, it's already faded, masked by the smells of a million of other vehicles. Derek scowls. 

 

Where the hell do teenagers like to hang out again? 

 

* * *

 

 

It's heaven. 

 

Like, he had his doubts before they moved—and the creepy thing in his house adds a whole new level of doubt right there—but this redeems Beacon Hills forever in his eyes. 

 

Stiles lets out the loudest happy-moan in the world as he takes another bite of his burger, and pretends he hasn't been getting weeks looks from the other diners for the past ten minutes. 

 

He can't help the noises, anyway, this food—this god damn _food_. 

 

Trying the fries makes him actually tears up. They're crisp, a little greasy, a little spicy, a little—"Mmhhghsogooood!" 

 

He's in love. He also, sort of maybe, forgot to eat for an entire day, so the whole 'heaven' thing might be a slight exaggeration. Still, Stiles has prayed to someone/something for a place that serves old fashion burgers, milk shakes, and curly fries since he was old enough to read about theology. The only place that had curly fries near his house in Santa Barbra was the Arby's that might have also been selling drugs. And he never knew for sure, since the investigation went down the drain thanks to a 'random' fire burning the entire place down before the department could get permission from a judge to get a look at the place. After that, if Stiles wanted quick and easy curly fries, all that were left were those frozen abominations in a bag that you supposedly make at home without a deep-fryer. 

 

  
**Abominations**. 

 

Anyway, this diner— _D-Light Diner_ of Beacon Hills. _Super_ clever—is the only place Stiles has found to have all three of these glorious foods together in one glorious meal. All of which are priced low enough for him to sort of afford, thanks to his his slightly illegal business of selling random research papers or notes to college students and writing up his own versions of news stories on his blog. 

 

People seem to like his rendition of current events, enough to give him a good chunk of money every month through the 'donate' button on the corner of his page. 

 

So, the cheapness alone is enough to attach himself to this place, never mind the insane food-orgasm happening in his mouth right now. Or the fact that they haven't commended on his weird smelling bag of sage on the table, or noticed the way his jeans are pulled down over his socked feet. That's cool.

 

Oh, and he probably won't get abducted by a Nothing in the middle of a person-filled diner. It's a win-win situation. 

 

At least, he thinks it is until one furious-looking Deputy Hale comes storming through the door and heads right towards him. 

 

"You!" Uh oh, Stiles is going to be murdered by a sexy cop pointing at him like he's an imposter pod-person and oh god, is it worth it? To be murdered while eating delicious food, by the hottest guy in uniform ever? 

 

He thinks: _maybe_. 

 

"I know, I'm too gorgeous to handle, even with ketchup on my face," Stiles quips, carefully placing his burger down and scooting it to the side a little. He's had his face shoved into his food before, consider it a lesson learned, sans the fairytale ending. 

 

" _You_ were supposed to stay home," Derek continues, stomping right over so he can loom over the table and glare. "And why haven't you answered your phone?" 

 

Stiles opens his mouth to argue, until he realizes he doesn't actually have an argument. He left because he was pretty sure he would have been killed, and instead of calling to report the invisible thing running around his house, he ran into the first nature-food-feel-good store, bought a solid mass of sage, and stopped in to get a burger. He also should have totally heard his phone, but...

 

Stiles grimaces, and pulls it out of his pocket. "I might have... turned it off..."

 

The deputy looks like he's going to vibrate out of his skin, he's that pissed off. " _Why_ did you turn it off?" 

 

"Cuz Joe kept sending me alien articles and it was getting annoying since I've already read most of them."

 

"Because—who is Joe?" 

 

Stiles squints up at Deputy Hale, trying to determine exactly what that expression is, and failing. 

 

"My only friend?" He offers, and holy shit he sounds so pathetic. Why did he just say that? What's wrong with, 'my best friend'? Or, 'my chum'? Actually, there's a _lot_ wrong with calling someone your chum, but it's still better than sounding _so fucking pathetic holy shit_. 

 

At least his slip up seems to soften up the angry deputy enough to get him to sit down across from Stiles and stop looming. 

 

He hisses, "Call your dad," and pulls out his own phone like he's about to do it himself.

 

Stiles does as he's told—because he fucked up, okay?—and jumps when his dad answers on the first ring. 

 

"You're so grounded, if you're okay."

 

"I love you too, dad."

 

There's a long sigh in his ear, before his dad lets out a weak laugh. "You know I do, otherwise I wouldn't care that you ran off to stuff your face at a diner."

 

"What—" Stiles narrows his eyes. "Wait, how'd you know i'm at the diner?" 

 

"I have my ways."

 

"You mean you have Derek reporting my movements to you."

 

"Deputy Hale," the sheriff _and_ Derek say at the same time. Stiles sticks his tongue out at the rude stalker-deputy and shoves a few fries into his mouth. He's pretty sure the deputy isn't going to shove his face into his food at this point. Then again, he was sure that wouldn't happen the last time it happened, too. 

 

"Sure, anyway, I kind of forgot to eat all day so it was sort of on my mind," he explains, leaving out the footsteps for now. His dad doesn't need to think he's legitimately crazy. Stiles will find proof before he submits to that just yet. "And I'd just watched a cruiser go by, like, ten minutes before I left. I figured I had time."

 

"Time to pig out and ignore your phone," his dad argues, sounding less and less irritated by the second. Stiles senses a scheme on the wind, and goes back to squinting at Deputy Hale. He has something to do with this, he just knows it. 

 

"I feel like i'm being let off the hook—am I being let off the hook?" 

 

"Weeell, you didn't eat,so I can understand a little—"

 

"Dad..."

 

"— _And_ I've been working all day, so—"

 

"Dad, no," he huffs. "You can't choose slow death by clotted arteries as my punishment." 

 

"—maybe I deserve a burger, myself."

 

Stiles snaps his head up and shoots the deputy an incredulous look. "Are you seriously reporting what i'm _eating_ to my dad?" 

 

Deputy Hale just shrugs, and looks back at Stiles with the blandest of all looks. 

 

Such. A. Creep. A beautiful, sarcastic creep. 

 

"Alright, fine," Stiles surrenders, slumping in his seat until he's halfway under the table. "You get one burger. A turkey burger, with no cheese or mayo, alright? Do we have a deal?" 

 

With much grumbling and many bargaining, Stiles manages to get his father to settle with turkey and cheese, and he has to eat a salad for dinner. Once that's settled, and the promise to go straight to the station has been made, Stiles places the order the next time the waitress swings by, and leans back to study the man still seated across from him.

 

 After the explosive show of anger earlier, Derek—Deputy Hale—has settled into a pretty mellow mood, only furrowing his brow every so often, and do some weird sort of nostril flair. Stiles takes this opportunity to thank the mysterious whatever in his house for scaring him enough to make him run away into this man's presence. He's just so... Pretty. He's like one of those Greek statutes, with the contrapposto and the insane details carved into the marble. No one _real_ has cheekbones like that, that's for sure. 

 

Stiles jerks out of his intense study of the godly figure, when said godly figure juts a chiseled jaw towards his plate and asks, "Are you done?" 

 

"D-done? I—maybe? Yes? I'm sorry."

 

The brows furrow. "Are you done _eating_?" 

 

Stiles looks down at his plate, and wow, no, he's not. Mr. Deputy is _that_ distracting—his beauty could be weaponized, bottled and sold as a confuddlement drug or something. 

 

Realizing that his thoughts are toeing the line of 'more insane than usual', Stiles shakes his head, and starts shoving the rest of his food into his mouth. It isn't until he's on the last handful of fries—and a sip of shake, delicious!—that he looks up at the deputy again. 

 

The eyebrows have nearly left the man's forehead, he's that impressed with Stiles' eating. Or appalled, it's kind of hard to tell. 

 

" _Now_ are you done?"    

 

With a final, loud slurp, Stiles nods at him, and wiggles in his seat. If he gets up, someone might notice his lack of shoes, but, now that his dad has interfered with his plan to stay here forever, he's out of options. 

 

Stiles takes a deep breath—something that catches the deputy's attention, for some reason—and scuttles off to the register to pay for his meal and his dad's take-out. The waitress is super nice, and clearly hasn't gone to the same school of Grump as Hale over there. Who shows up yelling at a victim like that? Bad police form, buddy. 

 

Stiles' polite-dealing-with-waitress-smile falters a little when he realizes what's wrong with this picture. 

 

Because, actually, when you think about it, he's being kind of unfair. Stiles knows—because he's been around one police station or another for his entire life—that a deputy's job is a fine line to walk. On the one hand, you pretty much always run the risk of dying one way or another, but on the other hand, you have multiple levels of rules you have to follow to avoid getting into all sorts of trouble. Trouble being anything from fired for a big mistake, to jail for a huge one. 

 

And what did Stiles do? He ran off, knowing his dad was putting Deputy Hale on the job as a personal favor for him, and when he was caught stuffing his face in a diner, he acted like Derek had ruined _his_ day. Of course he didn't treat Stiles like a victim, he has no idea what happened to make him leave, because he hasn't told him. Which, uh, yeah. Still not an option. Stiles is going to have to settle with being the world's biggest asshole, for now.  

 

Snatching the bag of burger from the waitress, he stammers out a quick 'thank you' and darts back towards the table. He doesn't get far, however, before he's running smack-dab into a very well toned—and uniformed—chest. 

 

"Guh-up!" Stiles blurts, his cheeks already heating up at the look the deputy gives him after a sound like that. 

 

"That was... An interesting sound." 

 

"Shh, pretend you didn't hear that, and, uh..." Stiles steps away from the glorious chest, and scratches at the back of his head. "I'm sorry for running off to the diner without giving anyone a heads up about where I was going when, literally, all I had to do was shoot my dad a text and I _should_ have, I know that, but I was totally caught up in this alien attack—and it was an attack, Joe is ruthless about this shi–stuff—and sometimes he forgets that being relentless when i'm already panicking doesn't help, but he's high and forgetful so I can't be mad at him." He pause to take a gulp of air. "And I never thanked you for finding me in the first place—oh! Or for coming over before when my dad called and stuff. So, yeah, sorry thanks. Those. Both—I can't—i'm done." 

 

Stiles can see the questions building up in the deputy's eyes, but the first thing that comes out is, "why were you scared?" 

 

Which, what? How the hell does he know?

 

"No reason," he lies, flashing his best smile. "I got a little overwhelmed with unpacking and I've read that cabin fever was an actual thing, so I ran before I started making puppets and singing musical numbers." 

 

His smile doesn't seem to convince the guy, though, if the twitch in his stubbly jaw is anything to go by. In fact, he looks even more pissed now, which was not the desired effect, at all. 

 

"It was Nothing," he tries again, willing his words to be more convincing. Unless that's not the issue, and Deputy Hale just doesn't like him. 

 

Said deputy's eyebrows do a weird thing, before his expression  returns to blank. "Alright. Are you heading to the station?" 

 

Stiles forces himself not to ask if that's it, and plasters on a much more honest smile. "Sure am, wanna join me?"

 

"I'm on duty." 

 

"Right—cool. That's cool," Stiles winces and starts back away before his foot can go any further down his throat. "I'm just gonna go—"

 

"Okay."

 

"—yeah, okay. Good."

 

The man's eyes flick over him once as he backs away to leave, and freeze on his feet. "Where are your shoes?" 

 

Oh god. 

 

"Right, uh, funny story—"

 

"Is it the truth?" The man snaps, startling him. Because, okay, what the hell did Stiles do to piss him off already? They were fair and square for the thing in the station, as far as Stiles knew, and the deputy had been almost sweetly concerned for him when he was called to his house. So... What's up with the tude here? 

 

"I left the house without them." Stiles shrugs. "I guess I forgot." 

 

Derek's entire being says, 'I don't believe you,' without him ever uttering a word. 

 

"It's a Santa Barbara thing?" 

 

Nope, still nothing. 

 

"I was hot?"

 

"You're still wearing socks."

 

"I live on the edge," Stiles suggests, starting to lose interest in lying and gaining an unhealthy need to make this guy laugh. "I feel alive, risking stepping on glass or used needles in the parking lot. YOLO." 

 

Is that a—? A little twitch there? Almost a smile? 

 

Stiles grins. He'll take it. 

 

Instead of letting him enjoy the moment, however, Deputy Hale suddenly frowns deeply. "Why are you lying about something that pertains to your safety?" 

 

"That's... Unfair," he squeaks, breath catching in his throat. "It's not like I _want_ —"

 

"What's stopping you?" And suddenly there's intense, crazy-color eyes right in his face. " _Who's_ stopping you?" 

 

Stiles has to take a minute to breathe, because, yeah, threatening manner and lack of personal space do not mesh with anxiety disorders or whatever. In that minute, he makes note of the way the deputy seems to be snuffling at him, and tucks that away for later analysis. 

 

"First, please get out of my face," he begins, and is pleased when Deputy Hale moves away immediately. "Second, i'm not being forced to lie to you, or whatever. I'm not being held hostage—" right now. "—or being used by some criminal element intent on bringing down this tiny town's justice system once and for all." 

 

It's supposed to be funny, a way to lighten the mood a little, but the thing Deputy Hale's face does after he says that is not pleasant. Stiles might as well have stabbed his puppy, for all the joy in his expression right now. 

 

"You know what, fine," Hale grits out, shoving his bag of sage into his arms and oops, he almost forgot that. "I won't refuse to help you, but consider this: the next time something happens, it might be too late for you to ask for help."  

 

And with that, he turns on his heel, and storms out of the diner. 

 

 

"Right... So there's that," Stiles mutters under his breath. Deputy Hale definitely does not like him, but at least this time it's mostly his fault.  

 

' _Where's my burger?_ ' His phone screen demands. 

 

Ah, yes. At least his dad still loves him.

 

  
_Yeah_ , he thinks, _it's just everyone else in this town that hates you._  



	3. Torture Chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles visits the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part one of a two-part update.

 

 

Stiles decides that small blessings are busy days at the station, a Jeep with a back seat, and a handsome deputy willing to keep some things quiet from your dad. Stiles probably—no, definitely does not deserve Deputy Hale's discretion over his shoeless escape to the diner, or about the suspiciously large bag of sage, but he's thankful for an easy lunch date with his dad.  Well, he does receive a hearty lecture on responsibility and learning to reconsider doing the first thing that pops into his head, all between bites of worryingly-greasy burger. Stiles winces more from the fatty food his father is putting inside of himself than the usual sermon. He's heard it all before, back when he and Joe would roam the streets of Santa Barbara without a care in the world. Which was fine, until several kids from his class were kidnapped right off those streets, and they stopped wandering around in favor of walking straight to their destination and wearing rape-whistles. His dad had gone the extra mile, of course, and enrolled Stiles into some self-defense classes just in case he ever found himself in an unfavorable situation. He's only had to use those skills a few times since the class, but mostly with bullies at school. It probably doesn't work on ghosts. 

 

After his dad finishes slowly killing himself with burger, Stiles is left to roam the station until his dad is free to head home. And, yeah, maybe he's risking it by wandering around a bunch of cops with no shoes on, but it's only because he's completely fucking terrified of going home alone. Plus, this way he gets to learn everyone's names and  hopefully wiggle his way into their good graces with future baked goods. Having a deputy or two on his side is always good for future-future slightly illegal endeavors, should he choose to embark on one. It's not really bribery if you're all  _friends_. 

 

After meandering around a bit, trying not to look too suspicious while maybe slightly hoping to run into a certain scruffy-scowl-puss, Stiles decides to pick a desk that's out of the way, and hover. Like most police stations that he's seen—on TV and real life—many of the desks in the pen have a chair situated next to them for perps to be intimidated in. The desk he's hovering by is partnered with an ugly lime-green chair that's covered with suspicious gouges and scratches. His butt is unhappy the second he sits down, but at least his brain is stimulated by the mass of sticky notes covering at least 90% of the desk next to him. 

 

Somewhere, under the rainbow, is a wooden desk with a few file folders, one of those I-was-donated-from-the-library desk lamps, an empty 'In' letter basket next to a full 'Out' one, at least ten pens, and a dinged up thermos balanced against a pile of books on the far corner. Everything else is neon colors and scribbled notes. Once you see past the clutter and violent clashing of greens with hot pinks, a pattern emerges. 

 

Green means the file is clear or ready to go to someone else. Yellow is a mystery because it seems to have multiple purposes. Blue is fresh stuff, usually stuck to folders that look new and unopened. And pink... pink seems to be something special. 

 

Stiles tilts his head just a little more, just a  _liiiittle_  bit more so can read the single name scribbled on the pink sticky-note stuck to the base of the lamp.

 

"Boyd." 

 

Stiles squeaks at the sudden appearance of pure muscle, and puts in his best innocent look while he un-tilts his head. "Uuuh hi." 

 

"The name's Boyd," the oddly familiar muscle— _man_  repeats, raising an eyebrow at Stiles over a stack of folders. "I'm gonna assume you're Stiles, the Sheriff's son." 

 

Stiles straightens up, meaning to offer a hand before he remembers where he's seen this guy before. "Wait a second, you're one of the Coffee Shop Gang. You guys were a bunch of jerks, don't introduce yourself to me now."

 

Boyd, apparently not one to give any fucks, shifts the pile of folders to one arm, and offers Stiles a hand to shake anyway. He hesitates, but, well, Boyd's being firm about this introduction business and Stiles doesn't do blood feuds. The guy seems pretty calm and earnest, himself. Just like Stiles' mom used to be before she started to get sick. Calm, earnest, kind. ' _Bright like a flame in the dark_ ,' his dad used to say. Stiles swallows back that old ache, and reaches out to shake the guy's hand.

 

"Right," he clears his throat. "So, yeah, I'm Stiles, son of the sheriff. Genuinely curious about that sugary drunk your gang was drinking because it looked and smelled amazing, and I intend to die drowning in its coffee-chocolate goodness."

 

Boyd huffs out a laugh, and pulls away to start stacking up the files on his desk. "It's called a Moca Misconception, apparently. My girlfriend makes everybody get one when we meet up there." 

 

"What the hell kind of name is that?" Stiles blurts out. "What's the misconception? Is there hidden flavoring? Does it look sweet but taste salty? Has someone spread rumors about what it did over summer vacation and everyone believed them?" 

 

"Hmmm... maybe." 

 

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" 

 

"Nope."

 

There's definitely one of those Dumbledore-esk devious sparkles in the man's eye as he settles down behind his desk and starts flicking through the folders without opening them. He seems oddly comfortable doing his police stuff in front of an almost-stranger, son of the new sheriff or not. Stiles feels like he's barely a blip on this guy's radar, and oddly enough, that's ok. 

 

After a few minutes of pretending to not be looking, Stiles gives in and leans back in the lime-green torture chair to watch him sort things out. He was definitely right about the hidden system thing, a fresh wave of sticky notes marking the new folders as Boyd works. Most of the folders get blue notes, and end up in the outbox, but one in particular catches his eye when Boyd slaps a pink square on it.

 

Stiles leans closer when it's set down, and tries to ignore his father's voice in the back of his head saying, ' _Remember, look before you leap. Try acting on your second thoughts rather than your first.'_  

 

His first thought is: That looks important, like murder mystery important. Open it. 

 

His second thought is: That looks important, like murder mystery important. Definitely open it. 

 

The, "Don't even think about it," is almost expected. 

 

Stiles blinks at Boyd, and realizes he's been leaning sideways off his chair. Subtle he is not. 

 

"Soooo, you're not a deputy, are you Mr. Boyd?" he remarks, straightening back up again and feigning innocence. 

 

"Nah." Boyd shrugs. "I'm a trainee for now, which means my job is mostly filing since I'm still in high school for another year." 

 

What? This guy's a senior? Stiles narrows his eyes at him, trying to see high school student and just... not seeing it. 

 

"O-kay," he says slowly. "I guess we'll probably have a few classes together, then."

 

Boyd looks up from picking up The Folder, something like doubt flickering across his face before his expression flattens back out. Yes, Stiles knows how young he looks, and wow, Beacon Hills breeds some seriously intense Resting Bitch faces. 

 

"Hnn," is all he says, and that's fine. Boyd doesn't have to answer him about classes when The File is now open and suspiciously close to where Stiles has taken root. That's an invitation, right? 

 

Stiles starts by shooting Boyd his most dazzling smile and—ok, so he's not even looking, dum it down a little. As soon as he's sure the cost is clear, Stiles' attention snaps right to the top page of The File. It takes a little speed reading to get through the basic information down to initial statements, but Stiles thinks he's got the gist of it. He pauses when he reaches a quickly scribbled note to 'read physiologist report' after a long paragraph about the suspect's 'cool demeanor'. 

 

"Huh, I didn't expect that," he murmurs, dropping all pretense of not-looking and scooting the torture-chair closer. "You don't get a lot of female serial killers, from what I've read. It's less common."

 

"What makes you think she's a serial killer?" Boyd asks, the force of his gaze burning a hole in Stiles' cheek. Someone else coughs from across the room, but Stiles is too focused to care. You can't dangle this stuff in front of him and expect him to follow the rules. 

 

Stiles scans back up the page, and sighs, "Well, she pretty much straight up says she has more than money buried in the woods, based on the statements they gathered on the B and E she was arrested for. I mean, maybe it's kind of a weak allusion to it, but if you follow the way she talks about the people she stole from down here," Stiles points a finger at a line scribbled near the bottom of the page, "You can tell she has very little regard for human life or, uh, just people in general. I mean, she calls the jewelry store clerk 'one of the cattle', and the cops are all 'pigs' as usual. I'm pretty sure that's classic sociopathic phrasing, right there. Like, next she's going to start talking about lotions on the skin." 

 

Stiles snorts, and shakes his head at the next page with her mugshot attached. "Oh yeah, look at her. Those are some prime crazy eyes." 

 

"Crazy eyes..." 

 

"Yeah, it's a technical term," Stiles muses while tugging the folder closer to himself. "Oh, and she says she was abused as a kid, another classic sign. Mmmhmm,  two additional arrests for assault and robbery and, uuuh... more violent stuff when she was a teenager. Which means they opened up her Juvi record already, for some reason... huh. This lady is textbook serial killer, seriously. Home run. Grand slam. Has no one actually bothered to check the woods for dead bodies?" 

 

Stiles looks up at Boyd, frowning, and nearly choked on air. 

 

Because, at some point during his brainstorming, three other deputies came over to stare at him while he sat here and talked to himself like a lunatic. In fact, pretty much everyone in the entire station—his dad is still locked away in his office, thank god—is staring at him with looks varying between surprise and maybe a little creeped out. 

 

"Um..." should he apologize? What was his second thought about this? 

 

Run away. 

 

Okay, not helpful. 

 

"That's an older case," some Captain America-looking deputy says, sounding uncomfortable. "We brought it out... after a cell mate of her's reported several instances of her sleep-talking about committing homicides." 

 

Stiles glances down at the folder that's in his hands, gets a full-body shiver, and quickly puts it down. There's a big difference between the hypothetical and the real, and shit just got pretty real. 

 

Gross. Ugh. No thanks. 

 

Stiles hates serial killers, like, you know, most people do. But he has a particular hatred for their bullshit theatrics after the truth about those kidnappings came out. Two psychopaths that passed through Santa Barbara and liked to pick up kids off the street. This was after his mom had died—which might be a good thing, actually—but the whole thing scared his dad so much that he actually took Stiles out of school for two weeks while they were on the loose. It wasn't until some crazy psychic guy found them both that he was allowed out of the house again. The whole story really creeped Stiles out, with their weird mind-games that wasted hours upon hours of police time, and strung his dad out so badly he was getting chest pains. Fuck serial killers. Bastards nearly gave his dad a heart attack. 

 

"Oookaaay," he says slowly, trying to follow his train of thought back to the now. "Well, uh...  hope you guys have some really big search dogs, because whatever she's buried out there has some pretty huge cougars roaming around it, and you..."

 

Stiles trails off. 

 

Because everyone instantly tensed up the second he mentioned  _cougars_ , and there's no way it's normal for an entire police force full of muscular men and women to get nervous about a big cat. It's not even their department. 

 

"Why would you say that?" Boyd asks, his voice just as calm and collected as before. In fact, he's the only one, out of all the deputies lurking around the desk, that seems unfazed by what Stiles just said. And that makes him super fricken suspicious. 

 

Stiles shrugs like he could care less about how damn creepy these guys are being. Like, super creepy. Like, they're watching him for any sudden moves because he's secretly been a cougar the whole time kind of creepy. "I might have recently noticed that you guys seem to have some really big wild life out there, that's all."

 

"You went out in the preserve?" 

 

"The what?" Stiles frowns at Boyd. "You mean the woodsy area near my house? Is it a preserve? Wait, is it a preserve for cougars, because they should probably have a sign for that or maybe a fence? Then again, is it still a preserve if it has a fence, or does that make it a zoo habitat or something?"

 

Boyd's Resting Bitch Face has become solid as he talks, making Stiles narrow his eyes at him. This is  _very_  suspicious, but he'll break him. Stiles can break anyone, even his dad. 

 

He continues, "Maybe they need a sign like, ' _Warning, Older Women Who Don't Want To Be Your Mother Ahead. Wink Wink Nudge Nudge.'_ "

 

Several people snort—truly terrible people—and the cougar-tension breaks just as quickly as it formed. He can't stop the flush that crawls up his neck, though, when the Captain America deputy flashes one of those condescending smiles, like Stiles is some sort of complete idiot. Whatever, he's got them fooled, that's what matters. Innocent ol' Stiles totally isn't on to your super creepy hive-mind reaction to the word 'cougar', and deeeefinitely won't be reporting this to his dad. At least, not until he knows what the hell is going on around here. 

 

Once his officer friends disperse back to their desks, Boyd pulls the folder back across the desk and slips it closed. "It's not a particular wildlife preserve, but a lot of it is private property." 

 

"Oh, okay, I didn't know that."

 

"I suggest you stay out of the woods altogether," Boyd replies, not bothering to look up from a second sticky note he's writing for the creepy lady's folder. 

 

"Right," Stiles muses, "Because of cougars." 

 

"And serial killers." 

 

Stiles chokes out a laugh, "dude, not funny. Too soon."

 

"You laughed," Boyd points out. 

 

"I'm not someone you should gauge average human reaction by, trust me." 

 

"Stiles!" And that's his dad's head peeking out from his office, oops. "Stop pestering my staff and get back in here!" 

 

Stiles grumbles, and stands up from his uncomfortable perch of hell on the torture chair. Of course his dad calls when he's finally having fun with someone. 

 

"That's it for me, then," he sighs, giving Boyd a wave before shuffling towards the sheriff's office. 

 

"Hey kid," a voice calls out, making him pause and turn around. It's the Steve Rogers-looking guy again, sounding concerned. "Where are your shoes?" 

 

Of course, he does the stupid thing and automatically looks down at his feet like he didn't already know his shoes were missing. Grunting in response, Stiles pulls his pants down over his socks a little more before looking up again. 

 

"Long story short, they've been removed from my person due to the foul stench of whatever it was that I stepped in earlier." 

 

Somebody snorts again, but Stiles doesn't stick around for the interrogation. These people are weird enough, he hopes, that they'll ignore the whole shoeless thing and go back to freaking out over cougars. By the time he's engaged his father in another argument over healthy food choices, he's already forgotten their warnings. Besides, he has more important things to worry about.

 

Like surviving their new house.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"He's too smart."

 

Derek frowns down at the picture on his phone, and tries to make out what looks like a person standing in the Sheriff's home. Boyd and Parrish decided to report the strangeness that happened after his little meeting with Stiles in the diner after work, but Derek has been having trouble concentrating. It's not that it isn't strange, or enlightening, but he's already more worried about what's happening to the kid, than what the kid might do if he figures out what they are.   

 

"I agree with Boyd, the kid's good at putting two and two together," Parrish adds, sounding impressed. "You should have seen him figure out the Renee case with a single picture and a few quotes in the initial statement."

 

Both men chuckle about something, and one of them mutters, "Crazy eyes." Derek decides he doesn't want to know. 

 

But that figure standing in the house... why couldn't Derek smell anyone when he passed? Unless Stiles is pulling some kind of elaborate prank, and left something in the window to fool the patrol cars. Why would he do that, though? He seemed genuinely apologetic when Derek found him, even if he was obviously hiding something. Something that had him smelling like stale sweat and fear, and made his heart race when Derek asked him about it. 

 

Clever, Parrish said, but clearly not that great of a liar. 

 

Boyd's still talking about the kid, moving on from whatever inside joke he and Parrish have got going to sounding concerned. "He said something about meeting local wildlife out in the preserve that got me wondering. Don't think anybody we know was out there the other night."

 

"That was me," Derek mutters, a blush crawling its way up his neck. When there's no response, he forces himself to look up from his phone, and scowls at their equally unimpressed expressions. "I was checking the perimeter, he came out of no where. It's not my fault if my wolf reacted." 

 

"Uh huh. I don't 'spose he saw your wolf?" Boyd asks dryly. 

 

"He didn't turn back once."

 

"Because you scared the livin' hell out of him. I could smell it when he talked about the 'cougars' out here." 

 

Derek can't help but break out a small grin. Stiles really thought he was a mountain lion? The irony was wasted on him; if only he knew their go-to excuse for supernatural murders around here. 

 

Boyd gives him a, 'stop it' look, and adds, "he also didn't have any shoes. Know anything about that?" 

 

Parrish mumbles a quiet, "Yeah, that was weird." 

 

Derek lets out a thoughtful hum. So he didn't go home to get his shoes before waking into the station? Interesting. 

 

"I don't know, he wouldn't tell me about it when I found him at the diner," Derek says, leaning back into the soft plush of his new couch with a sigh. It's too comfortable for brainstorming, and Derek finds himself losing his train of thought as the stresses of the day seem to slip away into the cushions.  

 

He won't say it out loud, because Erica can be absolutely horrible if you give her an inch, but he sort of loves the new furniture that the pack forced on him. Apparently, living in a mostly empty loft with a bed and a hole in the wall from the Alpha Pack battle isn't deemed 'healthy', which is why his nosy pack of teenagers decided to abuse their alpha's trust by stealing his credit card and sneaking furniture into his apartment when he wasn't home. He ranted about it for a day or so, glared at them whenever someone made a comment about how nice it was to come over now, and upped their training levels for a week. But when all was said and done, Derek actually liked what they picked out for him. 

 

He just never, ever going to tell them. 

 

Speaking of teenagers, the more he thinks about it, the more something feels off about Stiles. Which is a little strange, considering the sheriff came out clear of any supernatural related anything. Everyone in the station has given him a look over, and even Deaton swung by to do a quick spell check. All the background information Parrish got ahold of came back clean and lacking in any suspicious behavior whatsoever. Jackson had seemed put out, and suggested some kind of evil plot with a lot more subterfuge than the sheriff seems capable of. No one else seemed to buy into his idea, however. Not even the most paranoid. 

 

Perhaps it was just bad luck that they got the house that gives everyone a bad feeling when you go past it. Maybe it was chance that the sheriff chose that home over the ten other houses on the market in the same area. If Derek had know they were going to move in there before—no, there's no way he could have known, and better yet, what would he said to warn them away? 

 

' _Hey, don't move in there, it could be cursed_.'

 

Yes, that would have gone over really well with the new sheriff, especially since Derek has nothing to back his claim up other than a bad feeling in his gut whenever he goes near the place. There isn't even any records on file about the previous residents, nothing that would explain why the house made his wolf pace and snarl under his skin. 

 

"—was going to talk to him next time he sees him in the cafe." 

 

Derek blinks up at Boyd, realizing too late that he's completely missed what was being said while he was lost in his own head. His beta, however, isn't talking to him in the first place.

 

"You know how Scott is these days," Erica's voice rings out over the phone. "Twice bitten, or whatever." 

 

"He's acting like a twelve year old with a crush," Boyd replies, rolling his eyes when he catches Derek looking. Derek doesn't disagree with him. "Maybe if the alpha told him to do it, he'd man up and do it." 

 

Derek glares at him, not agreeing with him about that. He's not going to order Scott to do anything, not after the Gerard fiasco. Their trust still hasn't healed from that little betrayal. 

 

"Maybe the alpha can do some alpha-ing and actually find out what that kid is, because i'm betting he isn't human," Erica responds, sounding too gleeful to not know that Derek is listening in. Damn his betas to hell. "I've already started a pool with Jackson, because  _somebody_  wants him to be evil so he can kill him for looking at Lydia for two seconds." 

 

There's a shout on the other end of the line, and Erica ends the call with a giggle and a crash. 

 

"Well that was helpful," Boyd grumbles, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Nobody else has seen him around town since he left the station with his dad. Want me to run past his house and check in?" 

 

Derek frowns, thinking about the picture of a shadow and the bruise shaped like a hand on the kid's ankle. 

 

He's always hated that house. 

 

"I'll do it," he says, before standing up and grabbing his coat. 

 

"Not going wolf today?" Parrish teases from the kitchen doorway. Again with the raiding of his food, and Parrish is an adult. 

 

Derek grunts, "don't want to scare him again, he's been through a lot these past few days." 

 

It's a little startling that both men seem to agree with him, and send him off with demands of updates on a teenager they barely know anything about. One afternoon with him and they're already acting protective?

 

This Stiles kid really is trouble. 


	4. Fickle Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part two of a two-part update. Check back a chapter :D

 

 

 

 

Stiles is in trouble. 

 

 

Whenever he  _thinks_  he's got a handle on something, everything seems to go off in a completely different direction. At least this time it's a slightly less chaotic direction. After the whole dramatic, shoeless run-in with Deputy Hale and a stressful evening lurking around the station while his dad finishes work, Stiles spends the entire drive home considering coming clean about the whole angry ghost thing. But, the moment his dad opens the door to their new home and is met with  _silence_ , Stiles gets the feeling he missed his chance. Plus, his dad is clearly exhausted, or he'd have noticed the pair of sneakers already sitting next to him as he kicks off his boots. Or that Stiles is carrying a giant plastic baggy full of sage behind his back. He doesn't even ask why the pile books but the couch is scattered all over the floor, he just squishes Stiles in a quick side-hug, and trudges up the stairs to get ready for bed. Which is, well—not that is wasn't  _nice_ , but Stiles is kind of mildly terrified of going near the upstairs right now and he doesn't know how to explain why. 

 

"Stiles?" 

 

Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin when his dad's head appears at the top of the stairs. "Uh... yeah, dad?" 

 

"You commin'?" He asks, sounding bemused. "I know it's early, but I'm beat. Who knew a day full of busy work could be as tiring as a day on the beat in Santa Barbara?" 

 

Stiles considers bursting out screaming about ghosts and hand prints, because it's never too late for a good old fashion freak-out, but the weary tilt to his father's head has him choking down the words. "I, um..."

 

His dad must see his hesitance as something else, and sighs, "Don't stay up too late," before puttering out of sight. 

 

Well, okay. 

 

Chewing on his lower lip, Stiles decides to risk climbing the stairs for the sake of being one step closer to the man with a gun. Not that he's all that sure his 'attacker' is tangible enough to be hurt by a gun, anyway. It sure as hell isn't something to be stopped by a locked window and a few police drive-by's. Still, the house has been quiet so far. 

 

"Right, let's do this." Stiles leans into his doorway, flicks on the light switch, and squints into his room. "Hello?" 

 

Nothing answers him, so he holds up the sage and shakes it like a treat bag. "Snacky for the ghosty?"  

 

When nothing continues to answer him, Stiles lets out a sigh of relief, and crosses the room to toss the bag of sage on his bed. He is  _so_  done with this haunting. Why don't they ever show this part in the horror movies? The protagonist just up and  _done with this ghost shit_. Then again, today's been one hell of a rollercoaster, even without the ghost. He probably made an amazing third impression on the deputy, running away to wander around barefoot in the local diner. Hell, his shirt stinks like sweat from his panicked bolt from the house, earlier, his socks have already been removed and thrown in the trash, and his jeans have a small tear in the knee from god-knows-what. Stiles sniffs at himself and wrinkles his nose, there's no way the deputy missed that. But to shower, or not to shower? He can always do it in the morning, before he hits up the library for a new card. At least then his dad will be conscious and ready to kick ghost ass. 

 

Stiles wiggles his slightly-sticky toes against the carpet, getting a bubble sick pleasure from the slow  _ssshlllulp_  each toe makes as he pulls it away from the carpeting. Yeah, he's going to need to drown some of his shame while scrubbing old milkshake off his feet. Shower it is. 

 

The house creaks. 

 

Shower with a bag of sage it is. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He thought—okay, so he read that sage was supposed to smudge bad whatevers out of your house, but he's not about to light up a plastic baggy full of herbs and run around the house with it. Deputy Hale might not have his back with that one, and his dad's not stupid. He'll know something is up. The problem is, Stiles doesn't know how or what to tell him. So far, it seems like the ghost-thing is interested in him in some super creepy way that he can't think too much about or he'll start running again. It's already bad enough that he's sitting on his bed freshly showered, with his shoes on, a can of mace in his hoodie pocket, a knife and a lighter in the other, and a huge bag of sage in his lap. It's great to be prepared, but he's sane enough to acknowledge that this isn't normal. He should be relaxing in his pj's while watching Lord of the Rings, not ready to flee or possibly burn the house down at a moment's notice. 

 

"Okay, Stiles," he murmurs. "Man up. Maaaan up. Grow some uh... fuck, I don't know, balls are fragile and, like, really breakable so maybe not those." Is he seriously talking about this to himself? "Okay, start over. Man up. Get your shit together. Grow some... cartilage." 

 

Okay, the pep talk isn't working. Maybe some music? Eye of the Tiger? Get the blood pumping, maybe he can rise up to the challenge of his rival. 

 

Just as he starts humming, something thumps above him, sending an instant chill down his spine and suddenly there's no thrill of the fight in him after all. 

 

Snapping his head up, Stiles grabs the first thing his fingers close around and holds up the pepper spray above him, following the sounds of something shifting above his room. 

 

"Oooh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuckfuckfuckingfuckfuckJoe, you asshole, you idiot, you didn't fucking help meeeeohfu—" there's a scratching sound across his ceiling. "—aaaugh!" 

 

Stiles leaps off his bed when the sound ends by his window, and backs himself against the far wall. Whatever this is, it's not inside this time, it's trying to get in. It's coming to kill him again. He's going to die with the Eye of the fucking Tiger stuck in his head. 

 

 Stiles's breath catches in his throat when a shadow falls across the window and before he can even scream, something's yanking the window open and leaping into his room. Stiles doesn't even think, he just flicks the cap off the top of the bottle, and pepper sprays that shadow right in its eyes. 

 

"Augh! What the fuck?" The shadow snarls. 

 

Okay, so that's not a shadow. It's actually a furious, red-eyed, leather-wearing, slightly raving looking Deputy Hale. Or Derek for short, since he's clearly off duty with the whole bursting in through his window thing. 

 

Oh shit.

 

"Oh no."

 

"Yeah," Derek snaps, swiping at his eyes, reveling some seriously vivid blue-gray-green???-just wow eyes. "Is there a reason you have pepper spray on hand while you're sitting around in your bedroom?" 

 

Stiles shakes himself out of his color pallet dilemma, and remembers that some serious breaking and entering just happened, and he is not going to apologize to those parties who may or may not have been sprayed in the eyes. Because they deserve it and—

 

 "Wait a second," he says, holding his hand before realizing that he's still brandishing the pepper spray, and tucking it back into his pocket. "Uh, ok, hold up. You're asking me why I have pepper spray in the privacy of my own home? The guy who just creeped across my roof—which, just how did you get up there again?" Derek blink-and-you'll-miss-it flinches. "And then you proceed to break into my room through the window, therefor proving the vital importance of having said pepper spray on hand. I don't think you're in any position to demand answers from me, buddy." 

 

"Are you hurt?" Derek asks sharply, ignoring literally everything wrong with this situation.

 

Stiles flails both hands at him now. "Are you even listening to me?!" 

 

The answer is no, based on the way Derek stalks towards him, punctuating each word with a step closer. "Are. You. Hurt." 

 

That's not even a fricken question. Stiles kind of hates this guy a little. 

 

"I'm fine," he answers, just to get that weirdly intense look off the deputy's face, and maybe get his face a little further away from him. "So can we move on to you explaining why you're standing in my room right now? Illegally. Without my express invitation."

 

Instead of answering, Derek steps away, and starts glaring around Stiles' mostly empty room like it personally insulted his entire family, twice. Whatever he sees, he doesn't seem to like, because his expression goes from 'displeased' to 'constipated'. 

 

"There's nothing here."

 

"Uh, duh?" Stiles shrugs, and starts slowly inching sideways to get away from the guy. "We just moved in, like, a few days ago. I still have a ton of books to unpack, and my dvds are probably—"

 

"Why were you so scared if nothing was here?" Mr. Eyebrow interrupts. 

 

"Who says I was scared?" Stiles shoots back. "I was fine until you started Freddy Kruegering me."

 

"You were nervous before I even made a sound."

 

"Firstly, how the fuck would you even know that? And secondly, how long were you even out there creeping around, because—" 

 

His dad decides it's a great time to wake up, apparently, and calls his name out from down the hallway. "Stiles?" 

 

Shit. Triple shit on a shit bun. 

 

"Hide!" He hisses, waving at Derek to just, whatever. Disappear, hopefully. "Go! Shoo!"  

 

Derek begins to argue, "I'm not—" only to get pepper spray waved in his direction again. That seems to motivate him, but not in the way Stiles wants. Instead of just leaving, like a semi-sane person standing in their bosses' house when their boss is the sheriff, he shoves himself in the corner behind the door, and puts a finger to his lips. 

 

"Are you fucking kidding me riiiiight–hiii dad!" He chirps, waving as his door bursts open and a frazzled looking sheriff appears. "What's up?" 

 

"Stiles? Wha–I thought I heard you yelling?" He asks, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. At least he doesn't have his gun in hand this time, that's probably a good thing. Maybe, Stiles still isn't sure how he feels about a certain member of the police force hiding behind his fricken door right now.

 

"Oh, sorry, uh... I was talking to Joe and got worked up." 

 

His dad squints at him. "Are you hurt?" 

 

Why is everybody asking him that today? 

 

"Nope," he says. "I'm all good. Sorry I woke you up, though."

 

His dad just smiles, and waves him off. "S'fine. Just thought it was, you know..." his gaze slides away from Stiles to the window, and immediately narrows again. "Why is that open? I thought I told you to keep it locked, Stiles." 

 

Stiles flails his way over to the window, losing his pepper spray somewhere on his bed before his dad sees it. "You did! I–uh–forgot and opened it for some fresh air." 

 

His father isn't looking too impressed with him right now, and Stiles can almost feel the look Derek is giving him from behind the door. Whatever, so it wasn't locked. He's the bastard who went and opened it. 

 

"Look, I'll close it," he says, even as he shoves the window down with a thump.

 

"And lock it," his dad warns. 

 

Nodding, Stiles flicks the lock into place, and tries to usher his dad out of his room again before he somehow senses the idiot deputy behind the door. "All good, pops. Safe and sound again. Sorry for waking you up." 

 

The sheriff mutters something about windows and good kids as he pulls Stiles in for a tight hug, and sleepily waddles his way back down the hallway to his room. Stiles watches him go with a mixture of relief and dread. As soon as he hears the door shut, he slowly closes his own, and raises his eyes to meet the expected glare of the man standing behind his door. 

 

Stiles snaps, "Shut up," because he can, and escapes to his bed before Derek can pull any of that looming shit on him again. 

 

"Your window should be locked," and yep, there he goes. "After what happened, aren't you even the least bit concerned for your safety?" 

 

"Do you not hear the hypocrisy coming out of your mouth right now?" Stiles groans, hanging his head over his sack of sage and glaring down at it. He should have just lit it on fire, that would show them all. Stiles Stilinski can take care of himself. By burning the house down. Whatever, it's like three in the morning, he's tired. 

 

"First you lie about what happened," Derek continues, apparently too cool to register the irony of preaching to Stiles from  _inside_  his room. "Then you run off to a diner when you're told to stay home, you lose your shoes, and precede to lie some more. Now you aren't even locking your window, the same route you claim your attacker came in by."

 

Stiles bristles, his fingers curling into the plastic bag of sage. He's had just about enough of this bullshit.

 

"Okay," he breathes, lifting his eyes to glare at the deputy once more. "I'm going to reiterate this point one more time, just so we're clear. You just busted in  _through_  that window—which, sure, is something you couldn't have done if it was locked but somehow I get the feeling that wouldn't have stoped you—and then you proceed to approach me in a threatening manner. I mean, I felt threatened, you are threatening." Derek's eyebrows do something strange at this, but he says nothing. "Never mind the fact that all of this is illegal for the average citizen, but  _you_ , you are a deputy.  _You_  should know better, and you're lucky I didn't just let my dad find you." 

 

Actually, why hasn't he done that? 

 

_Because he's a deputy who seems genuinely concerned about your safety?_

 

Okay, true, but—

 

_And he's hot as the sun._

 

Wow, Stiles is a little bit of an asshole. An asshole who could actually be murdered by this man because he's cute and has a badge. 

 

Stiles opens his mouth to maybe forgive him a little bit for breaking into his room and scaring the shit out of him, but the look on Derek's face stops him. 

 

 He seems stricken, like Stiles finally got through to him, which is okay But the strange, sort of punched-out sound the man makes next is unexpected, and worrying. 

 

"Uh, dude... are you okay?" He asks. 

 

"I..." Derek trails off, and shakes his head. He looks genuinely freaked out suddenly. "I need to go." 

 

"Uh, okay, but—" Derek cuts him off by brushing past him to unlock the window, and yanking it open again. Stiles has about a million comments about this, but the deputy flings himself out the window before he can say even one of them. 

 

A cold breeze takes his place, leaving Stiles feeling a little numb. 

 

"What the fuck was that?" He asks no one. Thankfully, nothing answers. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Maybe it's the herb, or maybe his ghost got so much secondhand embarrassment from Deputy Hale's late-night visit that it left this plane of existence. Whatever the reason, the new house stays quiet for the rest of the night. The whole gloom of the place seems to lift, making it a lot harder to accept that there was ever a ghost to begin with. If not for the finger-shaped bruises around his ankle, Stiles might have shrugged it off as a Dorito-induced hallucination. But, as Stiles kicks off his shoes to change in the morning, he finds his ankle already turning that nasty purple-yellow-remember-you-got-grabbed color.

 

Definitely real. Defiantly still able to fuck with him, window locks or not. It's time to get out of the house for a while. 

 

"Where you headed?" His dad calls out when Stiles scrambles down the stairs with a backpack slung over his shoulder. 

 

"I'm thinking of heading the cold, sugary calling of the Goddess of Iced Coffee, then heading to the library to set up a card." 

 

"Might need some mail for that, kid." 

 

Stiles pulls to a stop in the kitchen doorway, and looks at him with a frown. "Do they actually need that? I thought that was just some weird Santa Barbara thing. Like, proof that you didn't hop the border to borrow books or something." 

 

"Pretty sure it's an everywhere thing," his dad replies, shoving a bite of bagel into his mouth. "'N I don't think they got a lot of people coming up from Mexico to check out books." 

 

"Who said anything about Mexico?" Stiles drawls. "It's the Canadians you've gotta watch out for. Book-borrowing apologists!" 

 

His dad stares at him and chews. "Uh huh. Thanks for filling your quota of weird before ten in the morning." 

 

"You're welcome." 

 

"You got your phone on you?" He asks, getting that police-man glint in his eyes. "I want you to check in every hour." 

 

Stiles pulls his phone out of his back pocket and waves it at him. "Yes, and you're going to regret it by the second hour." 

 

"I'd rather you annoy me than get kidnapped," his dad grumbles into his coffee mug, before making a shooing motion with his free hand. "Go on then. Be good." 

 

"I'm always good," Stiles replies.

 

"That's a fallacy." 

 

Stiles slows to a stop in the hallway, opening his mouth to argue his inherent 'good-ness,' when he sees the front door. Right at eye level are two hand-shaped marks just sort of... pressed into the door. He remembers the slam after he got outside yesterday, and turns back around. "Hey dad, i'm thinking I need a ride." 

 

"Why?" His dad asks from the kitchen. "Did the jeep finally give out?" 

 

"Uh, no, my beauty is running just fine. I just thought..." he trails off, glancing back at the hand prints. "I'd get you a coffee too." 

 

_And get you out of this house._

 

His father pops his head out of the kitchen, one skeptical brow raised. "You're going to get  _me_  a coffee?" 

 

Stiles huffs, "hey, just because I can't afford a cake doesn't mean I can't congratulate you on your new job. With coffee. Like, a three dollar coffee, maybe." 

 

His dad snorts. "Careful now, I might get spoiled." 

 

"Live it up, dad." Stiles grabs his arm, and starts tugging him towards the door. If he moves fast enough—

 

"Hold up would you—" his dad sputters. "Hang on!" 

 

Stiles freezes, eyes sliding once more to the hand prints. How to explain? He was running and had to come to a complete stop? He had a party that ended with some wild—no, wait. He tripped on the carpet and somehow smashed his hands into the door at three hundred miles per hour. Yeah. 

 

There's the jingle of keys behind him, and a sigh, "alright, let's go." 

 

Stiles opens the door, and does a little bow to hide his nervous smile. "After you, m'lord." 

 

His father strides by, chuckling, "I'm not giving you a tip." 

 

"Rude!" He chirps, before looking behind him. Nothing looks back from the top of the stairs. 

 

"If you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from my dad," he warns the empty-looking house, and closes the door behind him. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Whatever this slightly-better-ness that's going on is, it's spread. Even the people in town seem to lighten up as they drive down the Main Street, giving them a nod or a wave as they pass by. Beacon Hill's is almost nice for all of two minutes before his father gets a call and refuses to tell Stiles what the situation is. 

 

"I'll buy you a coffee," he wheedles. 

 

"It's not a good bribe if you already offered." 

 

And, since he spent most of his money on the gigantic baggy of sage in his backpack and can't afford a better bribe, Stiles is forced to vacate his dad's shiny, new sheriff's vehicle to get coffee all on his own while his dad drives off to investigate something. 

 

The cafe is oddly empty for ten in the morning, it's olive green and silver-striped booths looking lonely as Stiles weaves past a stack of chairs and heads to the counter. 

 

"Hello?" 

 

"Hold on!" Someone yells from the back. "We're open, I promise, we've just had a slow start!" 

 

Stiles nods to himself, and studies the hanging black board above the counter. He finds himself smiling at the doodles that surround the price lists. A pack of wolves, a mermaid, and a very 'Kiki's Delivery Service'-looking witch in the top corner. 

 

"What can I get you?" 

 

Stiles smiles at the dark-haired woman who appears from the back, and looks back up at the board. "I want to be adventurous, but i'm a little too tired to be trying out a sugar bomb today." 

 

"Too tired for coffee and sugar?" She asks, bemused. 

 

"Ah, yeah. I'm backwards, coffee-sugar combo actually mellows me out. A mocha is my warm-glass-of-milk before bed." 

 

"Interesting," she muses, before plucking a cold-cup off the stack and waving it at him. "How about a simple iced coffee? The cold might wake you up." 

 

"Sounds good," he replies, tapping his fingers on the counter. "Hit me up with that cold brew." 

 

"You're the new sheriff's son, aren't you?" The barista asks him while she fills up the cup. He considers lying, a habit from Santa Barbara, but she gives him an exaggerated wink as she slides over his iced-coffee like a pro. 

 

"Uh, yep," he replies, pulling out his wallet. 

 

She shakes her head. "It's on the house, sweetie. You're one of us."

 

"What? For real?" Stiles breaks out in a grin. "Oh thank you, sweet goddess of the java!" 

 

She chuckles. "Nah, that's not me. Wait until you meet Issac,  _he's_  the bitchy goddess of coffee." 

 

Stiles nearly chokes on his first sip, and nods along. He has no idea who Issac is, but 'bitchy' doesn't sound like a compliment. 

 

"It is nice to meet another one of us, though. Especially from away," she adds, her smile shifting into something more serious. "Although..." 

 

"Erin," someone calls out from the back, "the muffins smell like they're burning!" 

 

The barista—Erin—gives him one last look-over, winks again, and runs off to rescue her muffins. Stiles, meanwhile, silently wonders if he spoke too soon about this happy-feeling thing. So  _maybe_ she meant the whole 'free coffee for cops' thing, and decided to generously offer the new sheriff's son a free coffee. But what was that 'us' thing? Sure, Stiles was the only one who could get a decent cup of coffee out of the Santa Barbara station's crotchety old coffee pot, but that didn't make him rise in the ranks of coffee brewers. Unless it did? But how would she even know about that? 

 

_Just accept the free coffee and stop second guessing it._

 

Stiles chews on the straw as he passes out the shop's front door. Yeah, no. Stiles was raised to second guess pretty much everything, and there's definitely something about the way she said it that doesn't feel right. Like the ' _us_ ' is something more secretive than a little free beverage, something bigger. Stiles isn't sure he wants there to be an  _us,_ free coffee or not _._

 

He runs over her wording a few more times as he heads down the street towards the small marble building with a giant 'Library' etched into the front. The entire thing looks pretty unstable, its steps crumbling under his feet as he climbs. When he reaches the top, Stiles gives a good slurp of his coffee and shoves at the door. It doesn't open.  

 

"Oh come on," He groans, flicking down the lime-green paper that's loosely taped to the front doors. 

 

_'LIBRARY CLOSED FOR HOLIDAY!_

_See you after Lítill fjallagi!'_

 

"What the hell is ' _little fall guy_ '?" He mutters under his breath. 

 

Someone giggles, and Stiles turns around just in time to see a flash of blonde hair disappear around the side of the building. 

 

Right, no thanks. That's a little too much like a horror movie starter to follow up. Stiles is done with that side of Beacon Hills, it's past time for some normalcy. 

 

Outside of his library card, his ghost, and his Deputy Hale problem, Stiles actually does have something to do other than floating around town all day. He's been putting it off after running into the cafe-gang, but he does need to... sort of... get ready for the upcoming school year. Which means he needs to get his supplies list from his new high school. Which means he probably should get his jeep and actually find the high school. He  _could_  just ask someone in town where it is, maybe back at the cafe, but the thought of speaking to the conspiracist barista has him turning towards the police station instead. There's no way Deputy-Creeper-Hale will be on desk duty, that's just be unfair and cruel. 

 

Stiles smiles with relief when he finds a woman at the front desk rather than man-scruff McBreak In. "Hi there, I need a little help finding—"

 

"We aren't a guide book," the woman snaps, narrowing her eyes at him. 

 

"Uh, I know that, i'm —"

 

"Are you lost, kid?" 

 

"Well, sort of, but i'm not—"

 

"When did you last see your parents?"

 

Stiles grits out, "Together? About eleven years ago. Just my dad? About a half hour ago, before he drove off to investigate something because he's the new  _sheriff_." 

 

The woman jerks back as if burned, and stares at him with some unreadable expression. He really doesn't care at this point, the feel-good buzz he had going on is long since dead. Murdered by the weirdness of Beacon fucking Hills. 

 

"Oh..." she breathes. "I—I assume you're here to see your father, then? I don't think he's back yet." 

 

"No, i'm not here to see him, seeing as I  _know_  he's not here," Stiles says, "I just wanted to know where the high school was." 

 

The woman blinks, and immediately brightens. "Oh! I draw you a quick map. Are you on foot?" 

 

"It kinda depends on how far it is, really." 

 

"It's a little out of the way," she explains, ripping off a piece of paper and starting to draw lines on it. "Do you know where the preserve is?" 

 

"Vaguely sort of behind my house?" 

 

"It's pretty much behind everybody's house on this side of town. But a big chunk of it swings by the high school like this." She draws some squiggles, and adds a note. "We're where the star is, and I think you guys live on that street down closer to the diner?" 

 

Stiles has no idea how she knows that, but he nods along. It's looking like a job for Rosco, rather than a walk. He's not looking forward to going near the house again, even just to grab his jeep. At least he has his keys on him and doesn't need to go inside. 

 

He represses a shiver just thinking about it. 

 

"—could ask Parrish or Hale to drive you over to—"

 

"What? Who?  _No_ ," Stiles blurts out. "I mean, no thank you, I'll just pop back to the house and grab my jeep. She'll get me there. I'll just... take... this?" 

 

He gets another strange look as he slides the map out from under her fingers, and ignores it. He needs to vacate the premises before—

 

"Stiles?" 

 

That happens. 

 

Grimacing, Stiles takes the scribbled map and tucks it into the pocket of his sweatshirt before turning around to find Deputy Hale doing another eyebrow yoga move at him. He seems hesitant to approach, which he god damn better be after last night. 

 

"Deputy Hale," he says, nodding to him. He attempts some eyebrow speak of his own. 

 

' _How dare you say my name after breaking into my room_?' 

 

The deputy's brow furrows.  _'I don't know why I did that anymore than you do.'_

 

Stiles raises one. ' _That's not a good excuse but I might forgive you if you let me go without any trouble._ ' 

 

"I'll walk you out." 

 

Stiles nearly smacks his eyebrows off his stupidly pretty face, and hunches his shoulders away from the hand that hesitantly reaches to usher him out the door. He doesn't care if he's acting like a cat, this dude has a lot of explaining to do before causal touches are allowed again. No amount of pretty can make up for casual creepy and breaking entering. 

 

"Stiles..." the deputy begins the moment the door swings shut. "I'm sorry about... last night." 

 

"Which part?" Stiles snaps. "Your entire hypocrisy, or the opening my window and climbing through it part?" 

 

"I—both. I shouldn't have... I don't know why I did that," he admits, his eyes growing a little distant and confused. Stiles studies him, a frown forming on his lips. He seems almost... softer today, less abrasive and in-your-face. Maybe he really doesn't know why he did it, maybe he was genuinely concerned and decided to swing by via window to get a read on the attacker. Maybe Stiles is making up excuses for him for reasons he's too ashamed to name. 

 

"Can we just, uh, forget it then?" He suggests, shrugging. "Maybe don't do that again, and we'll go on our way? In whatever direction we're going in." 

 

"I was heading inside to file reports," Deputy Hale says, looking more confused. 

 

"And I was heading to the high school to pick up my supplies list." 

 

"You're going to Beacon Hill's High?" He asks, a hint of a smile forming. 

 

Stiles scowls. "Yes, I know. Amazing how I'm not actually a middle school student. I'm a senior, for crying out loud." 

 

One of those brows goes up, and there's defiantly a smile going on there now. "I didn't say anything." 

 

"You didn't—you," Stiles sputters, pointing a finger at the offending officer. "Go file paperwork!" 

 

He smirks, "Go get your school supplies. 

 

Stiles flaps his hands at him, and turns around to march out of the station's parking lot. There's a shuffle behind him, and he hears his name once more. 

 

"Yeah?" He calls, without turning around. 

 

"I meant it. The apology." 

 

Stiles bites his lower lip and tries not to grin all the way back to the house. 


	5. Who You Gonna Call?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles comes face to face with his haunting.

 

 

 

Stiles enters the high school parking lot armed with his cup of iced coffee and the poorly drawn map stuffed into his shirt pocket. Turning off the ignition, Stiles clambers out of his Jeep and makes his way across the courtyard to the closest entrance. He was told that the office would be open, but he's still surprise when the door opens up for him, revealing dimly-lit hallways and the potent smell of bleach. 

Empty buildings are always a little creepy, that’s just a fact of nature. But there's something about places like schools, or bus stations that really get to him. Anywhere that’s empty and supposed to be filled with people doing stuff leaves him feeling off. It’s just so... wrong. 

Which is probably why Stiles nearly has a heart attack when he turns a corner and nearly runs head-first into someone walking his way. Stiles flails at the dark-haired women in a surpassingly short skirt-suit thing, and tries to wheel himself backwards. She frowns sharply at him, and shifts her pile of folders away from Stiles’ flailing arms. 

"Excuse me," she says, "what are you doing here?" 

Stiles finds himself staring a little bit, because wow, she's kind of pretty and severe in an oddy familiar way.

"I asked you what you are doing here," she repeats, sounding less curious now. 

"Oh–sorry!" He blurts out, flushing in embarrassment. "I'm new, so I was hoping to grab my class schedule and my books. I was told that the office would be open all summer." 

One of her eyebrows arches up at his request, but apparently she believes him because she turns on her heel and starts walking away like she expects Stiles to follow her. Finding her silence more than a little unnerving, Stiles follows behind a bit hesitantly. Which is probably a good thing, because she pauses at a doorway to give him that judgmental eyebrow again. 

Stiles flashes her an uneasy smile. Great, just when he thought the creepy was over, he gets Silence of the Ma'ams.

Stiles is nearly bowled over when a voice booms out, "Jennifer! Nice to see you!" and the teacher appears to be dragged into the office before him. Sliding around the corner, Stiles finds the poor woman being clapped on back by a crazy-looking guy in a track suit. “I was going to ask you—who’s this?” 

 

Stiles tries not to shrink under scrutiny, but there’s something assessing and a little wild in the guy’s eyes. 

 

“I’m Stiles,” he says, holding his hand out. “I’m starting here in a few weeks.” 

 

“Weird name,” the man comments, but reaches out to shake his hand all the same. “You play lacrosse?” 

 

“Uh, no. Never played before.”

 

“You sick or somethin’?” 

 

Stiles makes a face. “No?” 

 

“Then why don’t you play?” The man snaps, looking irrationally annoyed. “You’ve got legs, don’t you?” 

 

“We didn’t have lacrosse back in Santa Barbara.” 

 

Jennifer’s expression shifts from flat I Don’t Want To Be Here to faintly curious again. The guy in the track suit seems to just get angrier. 

 

“Santa Barbara?!” He yells, making Stiles flinch back. “That Hell-hole? All they’ve got there is basketball and Arby’s.” 

 

He’s not exactly wrong, but Jesus Christ. 

 

“I was just showing him to the main office,” Jennifer interrupts smoothly, and turns them both around to leave the office. 

 

“Come see me when school starts!” The man yells after them. “I expect to see you at try-outs!” 

 

Stiles offers a weak smile over his shoulder, and scrambles after Jennifer as fast as he can. 

 

“Don’t mind him, he’s a little...” 

 

“Nuts?” Stiles suggests, and doesn’t miss the twitch of her lips. 

 

“I was going to say enthusiastic.” 

 

Stiles huffs our a laugh, and follows her the rest of the way to the main office. She’s pleasant enough, slowing down to point out different classrooms along the way, talking about her advanced English classes and praising his knowledge of the Epic of Gilgamesh. But there’s something not quite right about her, something off in a way that has him hesitating before speaking too much about himself. 

 

Like she might do something with that information. Something unpleasant. 

 

“Ah, here we go,” she says as they reach a brightly lit doorway. “This is the main office. If you go inside, the secretary will give you your class and supplies list.”

 

“Oh, thank you.” Stiles tries, but realizes he never caught her last name. “Uh... miss.” 

 

“Miss Blake,” she offers, smiling warmly at him. 

 

It makes him want to take a shower. He really hopes he doesn’t have a class with her. 

 

Ten minutes later, he’s cursing his luck. 

 

 

* * *

Derek is fucked. 

He doesn’t usually think like that, but then again, he doesn’t usually leap into random teenager’s bedrooms and get assaulted by pepper spray. Hell, he doesn’t even know what half his beta’s bedrooms look like. They’re teenagers, he likes to keep some boundaries intact. So this thing with the sheriff’s son has him beyond confused and more than a little freaked out. 

“Derek will you puh- _leez_ stop brooding?” Erica drawls, balling up a piece of paper and whipping it at his head. 

Derek snatches it out of the air and glares at her. “I’m thinking, not brooding. There’s a difference.” 

“Not with you. It’s all the same eyebrow and pout.” 

“I do not _pout_.” 

Boyd snorts, and ignores the paper ball that bounces off his forehead as he types into his phone. Derek scowls at them both, and turns back to the book he was supposed to be reading. 

“So, about that Stiles kid...” Boyd says slowly. 

Derek holds back a flinch, just barely. 

“Apparently he’s actually senior that got held back a year? So he’ll be taking junior classes and some advanced stuff.”

Derek frowns at his beta. “How do you know that?” 

“Issac heard it from Erin who heard it from Jennifer.” 

 

“The new English teacher?” 

 

Boyd looks up from his phone and narrows his eyes at Derek. “How did _you_ know that?” 

 

“I’m not a complete hermit,” Derek grumbles, turning back to his book. 

 

“You usually notice things weeks after they happen,” Erica points out, earning herself another glare. “What? It’s true. Unless it’s got claws and is running right at you, we all notice first.” 

 

“She introduced herself to me the other day, alright?” Derek snaps. 

 

And _that_ gets their attention. Which is not great. 

 

“She _did_?!” Erica purrs, giving him a sly look. “Did she shake your hand, _Deputy Hale_? Did she flutter her eyelashes at you? Did she strip that uniform off of you with her—“

 

“Please stop talking,." 

 

“—eyes.” Erica finishes triumphantly. 

 

Derek gives her a long, disappointed look that goes mostly ignored, and turns back to his book. Jennifer had been nice, and for once, Derek had had the pleasure of someone not looking at him like a slice of meat in uniform.He’d appreciated it. 

 

When she gets nothing else form him, Erica sighs, “Well, if Erin likes her, she must be good news.”  

 

“Erin likes everyone,” Boyd reminds her. 

 

“So?”

 

“Erin dated that guy from the River Valley that had a thing for feet and kept stealing her shoes to—“ 

 

“Please,” Derek begs, “Please either shut up or leave.” 

 

There’s a short, huffy silence. 

 

“We wanted pizza, anyway,” Erica drawls, rolling off the couch and stretching like a cat. “And Boyd’s on Stiles Watch because Scott is insane.” 

 

Derek snorts at that, and looks up from his book. “He’s not that bad.” 

 

“Oh, you have no idea.” Erica shakes her head, golden earrings catching in her hair. “He’s been basically stalking that Stiles kid for days now. He asked me to watch him this morning, which was boring because all he did was get coffee and try to get into the library.” 

 

“Why are _you_ stalking him as per Scott’s request?” Derek asks dryly.  

 

She shrugs. “I was bored.” 

 

Derek looks to Boyd like this is his fault. Boyd just shrugs, too. 

 

“I’m curious,” is all he offers in response, and leads Erica out of the loft to get pizza and be utter creeps. 

 

Not that Derek is one to talk. 

 

He still has no idea what happened. He’s never lost control of himself like that before, not even when he was first learning to shift as a child. There’s just something... something about Stiles that has his instincts acting up. Derek desperately wants to protect him, which is kind of hard to do when the kid barely protects himself and does nothing but lie. 

 

Then again, he did have pepper spray. 

 

Derek scowls down at the same page he’s been on for the last hour. He needs to get Stiles out of his head and away from his instincts. Maybe he will become a hermit. Or maybe he’ll just avoid the guy until things settle down. 

 

That should work. 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles doesn’t know why fate hates him, but he can’t say he’s surprised. 

 

The day has gone passably well. He had his coffee, got to see some of the school, met some colorful people, nearly hit a squirrel, got his lists for school. All a decent day’s work. 

 

So why did he have to jinx it by calling Joe and saying those accursed words? 

 

“It’s not going too badly.” 

 

Joe sucks in a harsh breath on the other end of the line, and Stiles feels his world start to shrink in on itself. 

 

“You just tempted fate, my friend.”

 

“Shit,” Stiles hisses, glancing around his room in a panic. Nothing moves or stomps or anything, but there’s definitely a weight in the air. Almost like anticipation. “Oh fuckshit, why did I _say_ that?” 

 

“Did you burn the sage yet?” Joe asks, sounding worried. 

 

“No. I haven’t even opened the bag yet, I’ve just been sort of holding on to it like a herby pillow.” 

 

“Dude.”

 

“Dude, I know!” Stiles yells, grabbing the bag from his nightstand and tearing it open. Sage instantly spills out across his legs and sheets. Whatever. Stiles doesn’t want to die because he’s an idiot. “Shit, do I just set the whole thing on fire?” 

 

“You wanna die in a sage fire?” Joe snarks. 

 

“I don’t know what to do, Joe! This is serious!” Stiles yelps, gathering up the spilled sage and trying to stuff it back into the baggy. It just seems to keep coming. “Shit! I know better—you know I do, I never say this kind of stuff. I literally have to warn people in movies about saying it and what do I go and do? I did the thing, Joe. I did the number one—no, ok, number three thing you’re not supposed to fucking do in a horror movie.” 

 

“Eh, at least you aren’t black. Or a woman,” Joe remarks, sounding considerably less freaked out than he should be. 

 

“Joe!” 

 

“Dude, get a bowl and light some on fire. Wave it around, talk about cleansing. You’ll be fine.” 

 

Stiles opens his mouth to argue that a bowl would be in the kitchen, and that is definitely too far away to get right now, when he hears it. 

 

The skittering sound. 

 

Stiles freezes, one hand curled into the sage while the other clutches the phone to his ear. 

 

It’s not outside this time. It’s not outside at all. It’s right here in his room, scuttling unseen along his actual floor. 

 

“J-joe...” 

 

The sound gets closer to his bed. 

 

“Joe!” Stiles shrieks, jumping up to stand on his bed and sending the sage tumbling onto the floor. 

 

Something hisses in response.

 

Joe says something about fire, but all Stiles can do is stare at the edge of his bed where pale, thin fingers have crept up over the edge. He’s shaking. He can’t even think. What the fuck _is that_? 

 

The hand creeps up further, followed by a head and—

 

Stiles screams, throws his handful of sage right at its creepy, dead eyes, and leaps away towards the door. The thing snarls behind him, but Stiles is already halfway down the hallway. 

 

“Joe?! Joe, it has a body, it has hands and eyes and a head and it’s following me, Joe, joe!?” 

 

“Get out of there!” Joe’s voice crackles across the line.

 

Stiles turns back when he reaches the stairs, and sees a body crawling out of his room like a crab. 

 

Nope. No. Stiles is done. 

 

Leaping down the stairs, Stiles lands hard on his bruised ankle and smashes sideways into the railing at the bottom. With a pained groan, he bolts down the front hallway to the door, and swings it open.

 

“I’m ouuaaaaaugh!” Stiles shrieks, running directly into a beefy-man-chest. 

 

“Stiles?” Beefy-man-chest replies, catching his arm and helping him on to the porch. It takes him a second to recognize Boyd. 

 

Stiles blinks up him, before remembering that the porch is still part of the house, and promptly dragging him away from the door before the _thing_ catches them. Once they’re in the yard, Stiles lifts his phone to his ear again, and dares to look back at the house. 

 

“Joe?” He rasps, his breath coming in short pants. “I’m out... i’m gonna call you back.” 

 

“Do not go back in there, Stiles,” Joe warns, his voice deadly serious. 

 

“I won’t,” Stiles promises, and hangs up so he can catch his breath. Now that he’s not running for his life and the sun is shining brightly on his sweating face, he’s really feeling the pain of breathing, in general. 

 

He’s decidedly not thinking about what he saw. 

 

“What just happened?” Boyd asks, his hand resting gently on Stiles’ shoulder. He tries not to flinch, but it kind of hurts from his crash-landing. 

 

“I, uh... I don’t...” Stiles deflates, and hunches over to gasp for air. “Forget it. Can’t breathe... enough to... lie.” 

 

Boyd does something with his phone, and starts to pull Stiles further away from the house, like he knows something’s wrong with it. Which is just fine with Stiles, really. He’d rather never go near the place again. 

 

“Stiles, what’s going on? You’re hurt again.”

 

Stiles frowns down at the grass and tries to bully his panic attack into submission. He’s got air coming in, but his body isn’t 100% sure about it just yet. 

 

He keeps seeing that thing crawling after him. 

 

Stiles whimpers, and tries to focus on the grass even harder. 

 

“Stiles? Stiles, you need to calm down.” 

 

The grass is green. Super green. There’s a patch of clover next to his foot there. His bruised up foot. 

 

No, he’s not thinking about that. He’s thinking about grass. Green house gases. Cut lawns. Does that clover have four leaves or is that just a split one? He could really use a four leaf clover right about now, seriously. 

 

“Stiles.” 

 

Stiles looks up, startled by the familiar voice of Deputy Hale. 

 

“W–What are you doing here?” He wheezes, swaying a little as both men reach out for him. “M’fine...” 

 

“Stiles, you’re hurting,” Derek says, his eyes full of worry. “You should sit down.” 

 

“How do you even _know_ that?” Stiles murmurs, ducking his head to his chest and taking in a slow, deep breath. He lets them ease him down into the grass, and winces a little when he weight shifts off his ankle. It’s definitely worse off than before, never mind where he smashed his shoulder into the banister. Those will heal, his brain—his brain won’t ever be able to scrub out the image of that thing crawling after him. 

 

Derek’s right in front of him, suddenly. Tilting Stiles’ chin up and forcing him to meet his eye. 

“Stiles... what happened.” 

 

“How do you do that?” 

 

“Stiles—“

 

“You ask questions without actually asking. It’s weird.” 

 

“Can you focus, please?” Derek demands, looking irritated but still speaking calmly. “I need to know what happened in your house just now.” 

 

Stiles blinks up at him, wondering why the pain is starting to fade already, and why, somehow, he feels safer here with Derek. He should probably be less trusting, considering their previous encounter with the pepper spray. 

 

But, once again, Derek’s first words are words of concern and a gentle demand for the truth. 

 

Fuck. He’s is going to sound insane. 

 

Stiles takes a deep breath and, “I’m, like, 90% sure my new house is haunted and whatever it is is trying to kill me.” 

 

Derek blinks. Boyd stares. 

 

Shit, he knew it! He knew he shouldn’t have—

 

“Was it corporal this time?” Derek asks, and what? 

 

“What?” 

 

“Did it have a physical or semi-physical form? Did it touch you?” 

 

Stiles gapes at the man, and falls a tiny bit—the smallest bit—in love with Deputy Hale just for _believing_ him. 

 

“I don’t even know,” he blurts out, so beyond able to handle any of this anymore. “It tried to crawl up on my bed, so I threw sage at it. But I’m pretty sure that just... pissed it off more, so I ran and it—it poltergeisted after me. It didn’t touch me, this time.” 

 

Derek frowns at him, his eyes darting down to the bruise peeking out from under Stiles’ jeans. “But it’s the same thing that grabbed you the last time. And scared you away to the diner.” 

 

Stiles swallows, and nods. It felt like the same thing to him.

 

Derek studies him for a long moment, then looks back at the house. Stiles follows his gaze, and tries to see something evil about the place. The problem is, it looks perfectly innocent. Almost too innocent, like it’s _trying_ too hard to be just a house. 

 

“Well, I do know one thing,” Derek murmurs. 

 

“What’s that?” Stiles asks, still staring at the house. 

 

“You aren’t staying here anymore.” 

 

Stiles gapes some more. “What? I don’t have anywhere else to go! My dad can’t live here—I’m not leaving him alone!” 

 

“Stiles,” Derek says, “Calm down. I’ll let him know that it’s a crime scene and set him up at a hotel.” 

 

“Wh—what about me?” 

 

Derek takes literally a second to think about it before saying, “You can stay with me.” 

 

“Oh,” Stiles murmurs. “Um. Are you sure?” 

 

Derek just nods, and Boyd grunts something under his breath before he’s moving away to make a call. Stiles is starting to reach the point of no return with the whole overwhelmed thing, and decides to focus on one thing at a time. 

 

One thing at a time. He can totally do this.

 

“I don’t have any shoes again.”

 

Yeah, he’s doing awesome. 

 


	6. Ghost of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles officially meets the local werewolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd because i'm a terrible human being.
> 
> Chapter warnings at the end.

 

 

 

Stiles doesn’t think this is funny anymore. Not that he ever did—not really—but there had been a certain level of disbelief and humor to his fear before he actually laid eyes on the thing haunting him. Now Stiles is faced with the cold reality that is, apparently, a real live monster in his house. It’s as creepy and alarming as he always expected a haunting to be, if haunting were real. What he doesn’t expect is the level of confidence and _experience_ the Beacon Hill’s police force seem to have with the situation. 

 

“That barrier should hold it back,” someone is saying while Deputy Hale nods along. “It most likely can’t leave the residence, anyway.” 

 

“You have an idea of what it is?” Hale asks. 

 

The man shrugs a little, and glances at Stiles, who’s not even bothering to pretend to not be listening in. 

 

“It would help if I got a look at it myself,” The guy says as Deputy Hale turns and glares at Stiles. 

 

Stiles blinks at them both for a moment, before shrugging. “I mean, if you really want to go meet it, be my guest. It didn’t show its face the last time Dere—Deputy Hale was in the house.” 

 

“You said you didn’t see who it was,” the Deputy snaps, stalking across the lawn to where Stiles has curled up against his Jeep. He hasn’t moved since he ran out of the house, and he swore he wouldn’t leave until Hale confirmed that his dad wasn’t coming back here and that no one would go in the house unprepared. It had earned him a small smile from the Deputy, which had slowly but surely turned into a frown as things proceeded from there. Especially since the bald guy showed up and started making circles with dust and muttering about spirits. 

 

“I didn’t see anything until today,” Stiles grumbles back, “That wasn’t a lie. It was like... invisible before. Now it’s this creepy woman thing that walks like a crab on ecstasy.” 

 

“But you did lie about it before.” 

 

Stiles sneers at the Deputy, “What was I supposed to do? Tell everyone i’m being haunted by some invisible being? I would be locked away, and I’d last, like, a week there before I _actually_ lost my mind.” 

 

The Deputy’s glare softens a fraction of an inch, and the bald guy beside him grimaces. 

 

“You didn’t know about the supernatural before this event, did you?” The man asks as he steps around Deputy Hale. 

 

“The most supernatural thing I’ve ever seen was a guy hovering over a piece of card board on the boardwalk back in Santa Barbara.” Stiles swallows thickly. “Until today, I guess.” 

 

“And you’ve had no previous training?” 

 

“Training for what? Ghosts? Like a Ghost Buster class?” 

 

The man stops and hunkers down in front of him. “You told Mr. Hale about using a bag of sage against it. What made you think to use sage?” 

 

Stiles frowns, trying to go back over his reasoning for the sage. He’d just looked it up online and—no, wait. It was something his mom had said, once. Something about keeping evil spirits from climbing in his window. 

 

“My, um... something my mom told me a long time ago. Plus google.” 

 

The man stares at him, his expression oddly blank as he seems to think Stiles’s reply over. “And what happened when you used the sage?” 

 

“Uh, it sort of screamed, and got angry. And crab walked after me.” 

 

“You didn’t form a line with it? A protective circle, perhaps?” 

 

Stiles scowls. “No, I didn’t know I was supposed to. I just sort of spilled it everywhere and threw some at it when it tried to climb up on my bed.” 

 

The man hums thoughtfully, and turns to glance back at Deputy Hale. Stiles watches them share a look—which, excuse me, you better explain whatever _that_ means—and waits for the Deputy’s eyebrows to stop rising off his head. 

 

“Well,” The guy says, dusting off his knees while he straightens up. “I think it’s best you leave this to us, for now. I believe Mr. Hale offered to room you at his place for tonight?” 

 

Stiles shuffles his bare feet against the asphalt and glances at the deputy in question. He’s not scowling anymore, but there’s a weird kind of tenseness around his face. Like he stepped in something smelly but is too polite to call that smelly thing by its name. 

 

“I can just stay at the hotel with my dad, you know,” he suggests. 

 

“I think it would be best of Derek explained a few things to you.” 

 

Stiles raises a skeptical eyebrow. 

 

“About Beacon Hills and the, ah, supernatural element.” 

 

Oh. 

 

_Ooh_. 

 

So Deputy Hale _would_ have probably believed him if he came running out of his house screaming about ghosts after all. That’s... kind of reassuring and alarming at the same time. Like, ‘supernatural element’? That implies more than one thing that goes bump in the night. Does this mean there’s more than just ghosts out there? Vampires? Ghouls? Werewolves? 

 

“Are gremlins real?” He blurts out. “Because I swear to god that would explain so many missing socks, and I told my dad I wasn’t eating them, but he thought he was being hilarious and my mom always said we had gremlins in the house but he never believed her.” 

 

Something funny happens to the Deputy’s pinched face, but Stiles is more curious about the smirk that the bald guy flashes. “It sounds as though your mother was quite informed.” 

 

That doesn’t really answer his question, but the guy seems to be done with the conversation, anyway. He just up and wanders off while Deputy Hale approaches Stiles. 

 

“Uh, ok. Nice talk, random dude,” Stiles mutters under his breath as he pushes himself up from the ground. 

 

“That’s Deaton,” The deputy replies, offering Stiles a hand to help him up. “He tends to do that.” 

 

Stiles accepts his help, and smiles wryly. “I noticed he’s not in uniform. Not that you or Boyd are, either.” 

 

Deputy Hale shrugs and lets go of Stiles’ hand, taking a step back from him. “We aren’t technically on duty at the moment.” 

 

“How did you even know to come over here?” Stiles asks, tucking his hands into his pockets and trying not to admit he feels a little stung by Derek’s reaction to him. His hands aren’t _that_ clammy. “Actually, how did you even _get_ here? I didn’t see a car.” 

 

The Deputy stares at him for a long moment before letting out a sigh. “Why don’t I take you to the station to see your dad first, and then we can talk.” 

 

“At your place. We’re going to talk at your place, right?” 

 

There’s a low grumbling sound from the deputy before he ducks his head and grits out a quiet, “Yes.” 

 

Stiles considers saying ‘no’ and staying at the station with his dad. Maybe ignorance can be bliss, right? Maybe he can just let these guys take care of the problem and go back to living a normal life with no crab walking, backwards creeping—no. Yeah, just no. Stiles will never get that image out of his head, and once he knows this much, he can’t just let things go. He has to know it _all_. 

 

Besides, spending time with mild-creeper Deputy Hale isn’t all that bad. If you squint, and ignore his bedroom-breaking-and-entering habits, he’s a very hot deputy, willing to protect Stiles from ghosts and whatever else is out there. How could he say ‘no’? 

 

“Ok,” he agrees at last. “But we’re going to have to sell this to my dad, and that won’t be easy.” 

 

* * *

 

“Alright.” 

 

Stiles sputters, “al–alright? That’s it?” 

 

His dad lets out a long sigh, and runs both hands over his face. He looks like he’s aged thirty years in a day, his desk is in a state of disarray, and Stiles swears he sees a new gray hair on the top of his head. 

 

“Yes, Stiles, that’s it. I doubt I’ll be spending much time at the hotel as it is, and—“ he breaks off and shakes his head. “And I wanted to keep you away from all this for as long as possible. Yet, somehow, it crawls right through your window.” 

 

Stiles gapes at his father, completely and utterly betrayed. His dad knew about the supernatural the entire time? Since when? Why didn’t he ever—

 

“I mean, that’s part of the reason why we moved away from Santa Barbara.” 

 

Wait, what? 

 

Stiles squints at him. “What do you mean?” 

 

“To get away from the criminal element,” his dad answers, sounding tired. “Every damn day there was something big going down. Always someone threatening the city, or a store down the block, or your school. How many bomb threats were called in every month?” 

 

“Ten or twelve.” 

 

“I wanted to get you away from that, and the second we move here...” 

 

“Someone crawls in my window,” Stiles finishes for him, slumping back in his seat. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed that his dad doesn’t know. Maybe it’d have been better if his dad knew, even with the betrayal. At least then he could explain this to his dad without feeling like he’s losing his mind. 

 

Stiles looks down at the flip flops Deputy Hale bought him before they came in, and tries not to let the panic eat him alive. He’s been fighting it off since he ran from the house, but instead of edging off like it usually does, it feels like it’s building up more and more. Lying to his dad probably isn’t helping, but what else is he supposed to do? Apparently the entire police department is lying to him about it, he can’t just out their secret. At least not until he knows more about what’s going on. 

 

“You ok, son?” 

 

Stiles jerks his head up and plasters on his usual smile. “I’m fine, dad. I mean, I could be lounging at home with some pizza and the entire series of Lord of the Rings, but i’m ok.” 

 

“I’ll handle it,” his dad promises, standing up so he can lean over and pat his shoulder. “I promise you, I won’t let them get away with terrorizing my kid.” 

 

“Sooo,” he draws out. “You’re ok with me staying over at Deputy Hale’s house, then?” 

 

“I trust him to protect you. He’s got a good head on his shoulders and knows what happens if he doesn’t.” 

 

“Sooo you’ve threatened him, already.” 

 

“Maybe. A little.” 

 

“Dad!” 

 

“I was stressed,” he grumbles. “And you were missing at the time.” 

 

Stiles kind of sort of wants to kick him a little bit, but he also kind of wants to hug him. He’s not a little kid anymore, he doesn’t need a baby sitter. But he also just went through some traumatizing shit, and the protectiveness is appreciated. 

 

“I’ll be alright,” he promises, reaching over the desk and squeezing his dad’s arm. “I’m pretty sure Deputy Hale would protect me without the threats, though.” 

 

“He seems like a good guy,” his dad agrees. 

 

 

* * *

 

Derek is a horrible person. 

 

He knows something is going on between him and the sheriff’s son, but he still agreed to bring him to his home—his _den_ —and let him spend the night. Sure, it was in the name of safety, and Derek genuinely wants to keep the kid away from whatever is haunting his house, but there’s also this large, hairy part of him that’s wagging its tail and hopping around like a puppy.  

 

His wolf wants something from that kid. He just doesn’t know _what_ , and it’s terrifying. 

 

“I haven’t seen you look this constipated since Scott last spoke to you.” 

 

Derek looks up from the paperwork he’s been glaring at for the last ten minutes, and sighs through his nose. Of course Boyd would notice something off about him, he’s much more in tune with Derek’s emotions than the rest of the betas. 

 

“There’s something about that kid that has me... on edge,” he admits. 

 

“I didn’t think you liked them younger,” Boyd replies. “And male.” 

 

Derek bristles. “I don’t _like_ —“ 

 

Boyd holds up a hand, shaking his head. “I was making a joke, but the way you’re reacting is kind of not funny.” 

 

He’s right. Derek’s claws are itching to come out, and he’s pretty sure he just flashed his eyes in the middle of the station. He _never_ loses control like this, not since his teenage years. 

 

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he grits out, curling his fingers into the paperwork on his desk. “I went into his room the other night. Just... swung in through the window without a second thought.” 

 

Boyd sputters, “You—what?” 

 

“I know! I _know_. I don’t know what it was, I just felt like I had to be there to protect him.” 

 

“That’s really...” 

 

“Creepy.”

 

“I was going to say ‘weird’, but sure.” 

 

Derek unclenches his hands and runs them down his face. He knew Boyd would be better about this than the rest of his betas. Erica would tease him until he threw her across the room, Issac would be distinctly uncomfortable and unsure about the whole thing, and Scott... well, Scott would probably jump to some strange conclusion and go attack Stiles for hypnotism, or something. 

 

Not that he can deny there is something a bit hypnotic about Stiles. Which is exactly why he was going to avoid him, not invite him over to his home. 

 

_Good, good, good!_

 

Derek groans and hides his face behind his hands. His wolf is downright exuberant. It’s... weird. 

 

“This is going to lead to trouble, isn’t it?” 

 

Boyd huffs out a laugh from across the desk. “Oh, I don’t doubt it.” 

 

“Thank you for your undying support.” 

 

“Welcome.” He pauses and adds, “And here he comes now.” 

 

Derek tenses up, already hearing the slap-slapping of the flip flops he bought Stiles before they got to the station. 

 

“So, I guess we’re good to go,” Stiles says, coming up on Derek’s left. “Do you live near by or is it a long drive? I hope you don’t mind stopping for food somewhere because I haven’t eaten since lunch time and I had an early lunch. I’ll pay you back, uh, once I can get back into my house, of course.”

 

Derek watches Boyd’s lips twitch as he pretends to be hyper-interested in the lamp in front of him. 

 

“Unless you want to just skip right into the whole ‘supernatural is more than a tv show’ speech,” Stiles continues, making a face. “I kind of regret watching that, now. I have all these expectations I feel are about to be thoroughly dashed.” 

 

“It’s good to be prepared to be disappointed,” Derek replies dryly. 

 

“You say that like you’ve seen the show.” 

 

“I have... friends who find it amusing.” 

 

Stiles seems to find that funny, and cracks a grin. Derek ignores the way his wolf puffs up his chest. 

 

“Come on,” he says gruffly, standing up and sliding his paperwork into a folder. Boyd follows suit, and leads the way out of the station with Stiles flip-flopping behind. 

 

 

The ride to loft is mostly quiet, the only interruption being Stiles asking for food again. Derek shuts him up with a promise to cook, and scowls at Stiles’ surprise. 

 

He can provide for his pack, how dare he think otherwise. 

 

“Dude, are you sure you’re not taking me somewhere to kill me?” Stiles asks as they get closer to the loft. 

 

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek grunts out, slowing the car down and turning into the small lot outside his building. 

 

“Seriously, these buildings have been getting steadily creepier.” 

 

Derek bristles, glaring up at his, admittedly, grungy-looking building. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but his loft has been improved upon since he first moved in. It’s nice now, the pack made sure of it.

 

Boyd climbs out of the front seat first, prompting Derek to turn the car off and follow him. Stiles remains inside for a moment, muttering about his dad’s vote of confidence until Derek comes around and opens the door for him to get out. 

 

“Alright, alright. Commence the murdering,” he grumbles as he clambers out. 

 

“I’m not going to murder you unless you stop dragging your feet,” Derek snaps. 

 

Stiles makes a sarcastic face, and follows them up to the top floor complaining the entire way. 

 

“Here,” Derek mumbles, sliding open the door and stepping through. He hears a soft hum from Stiles as he enters, and tenses up.

 

“It’s surprisingly nice.” 

 

Derek’s wolf nearly looses its mind. 

 

“Thanks.” Crap, he really needs help. 

 

“Soooo...” Stiles swings his arms, watching Boyd slide the door closed and move across the room to the couch. “I guess it’s time to talk?” 

 

Derek gestures to the chair across from the Boyd. “You should probably sit.” 

 

“That mind-blowing, huh?” Stiles jokes, tossing himself into the chair vigorously. “Alright, seated and ready. Lay it on me.” 

 

Derek opens his mouth to tell him off for being flippant, and closes it again. He hadn’t actually planned this out when he agreed to explain the supernatural world to Stiles and his father. He hadn’t wanted to, not until Deaton pushed him after what they found in Stiles’

Room. Clearly Stiles was something more than human, and it would be good to let him and his father in on the town’s secret. Derek has no idea where to start, though. Boyd clears his throat to get his attention, and raises an eyebrow when Derek looks his way. 

 

“Maybe start with what’s going on at his house?” He suggests.

 

“Alright, well... to start, the thing in your house is a type of ghost.” 

 

“I know _that_ ,” Stiles interrupts. 

 

“Deaton seems to think it was drawn to your house by something. Possibly something you brought with you.” 

 

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “We don’t have any, like, cursed objects or anything. Unless you count the first season of Glee on dvd that my nana sent me for Christmas last year.” 

 

Derek frowns, and glances back at Boyd, wondering if he’s noticed anything. The teen doesn’t seem to be lying, but based on what Deaton said, there was clearly something drawing the spirit into the home. Something, or someone. 

 

“So, what about gremlins?” Stiles asks, oblivious to Derek and Boyd’s exchanged glances. “Ooh, or vampires? That’s a thing, right? Do the sparkle? Please tell me they don’t, I don’t think I can handle disco-ball vampires. My life is hard enough.” 

 

Derek crosses his arms and stares down at Stiles until he makes a zipping motion over his mouth and smirks. 

 

“Vampires are real, but they don’t come South this time of year. Gremlins... I don’t actually know. We need to explain a few things about the area—unrelated to your ghost... problem.” 

 

Stiles nods. 

 

“There are... werewolves who live in town here,” Derek begins, feeling awkward. It doesn’t help that Stiles’ mouth drops open dramatically, and a weird strangled noise fills the air. 

 

“There’s _werewolves_?! Where? Who?”

 

Derek clears his throat. “Us, actually.” 

 

Stiles’ heart skips a beat, and he promptly does a jerky-flail thing hard enough to lose a flip flop. Derek tries to ask his wolf what the hell its thinking focusing on such a wreck of a human being. 

 

“Okay, hold on.” Stiles puts a hand up. “Start over and introduce yourself properly.” 

 

“Boyd and I are both werewolves,” Derek begins. “I am the alpha, and my pack has six betas in it. We protect this town from certain aspects of the supernatural world, while dealing with the human side of things via our police work.”

 

“Is Deaton a beta?” Stiles asks. 

 

“No, he is... something else.” 

 

“A wizard?” 

 

Derek glares. “No.” 

 

“A warlock, then?” 

 

“Can we focus on something else, please?” 

 

Stiles gestures for him to go on, and flops back into the chair looking bemused. 

 

“We are having some issues with your father—“

 

“Hey!” 

 

“—due to the fact that he, apparently, has no clue about the supernatural,” Derek continues. “We’ve been trying to find a way to break it to him gently.” 

 

“Well this has been pretty gentle so far,” Stiles remarks. 

 

Derek considers it. “You _have_ been weirdly accepting of the whole thing.” 

 

“I’m not 100% convinced you aren’t, like, a total psychopath furry or something, but sure. I’m rolling with it.” 

 

Boyd snorts, and shakes his head. “You wanna’ show him or should I?” 

 

Derek scowls, but accepts that this is how it will always be. They had to do the same thing with the last sheriff, and his mother with the sheriff before that. Humans—even mysterious ones like Stiles—will always require proof. 

 

Sighing, Derek drops his arms and rolls his shoulders to loosen up. He lets the change come over him slowly, his bones creaking and shifting with a flush of warmth across his body. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Stiles as he changes, his vision sharpening as his eyes flash red. 

 

Stiles, for the most part, seems to be taking it well. Derek can hear his heart rate rising, but nothing like the panicked beat he heard earlier today. His scent also remains mostly the same, only a small hint of nerves and a whole lot of curiosity. Derek’s nose twitches when he’s hit with a sudden waft of amusement and Stiles starts to snicker. 

 

“Well that’s new,” Derek mutters, glaring down at him. 

 

“Sorry—I just... they’re gone.” 

 

Boyd clears his throat in an obvious way, and Derek crosses his arms again. 

 

“That’s all you have to say when faced with a real werewolf?” Derek snaps. 

 

“Well, technically I’ve been faced with a real werewolf this entire time, but yeah, I mean. It’s major. I literally watched them, like, sink into your skin. That’s a lot of eyebrow to absorb.” Stiles leans forward. “Are you okay?” 

 

Derek’s wolf seems pleased with Stiles’ concern, but Derek knows better than to take it seriously. Besides, what the hell is his wolf even thinking? Derek grits his teeth and shakes out the shift until his face is fully human again. Stiles seems almost disappointed, and leans back in his chair again with a sigh. 

 

“Alright, so you wanted to break it to me first before you got to my dad, right?” 

 

Derek shrugs. “That was the plan. We figured no one really knows him outside of you, and since you are one of us, you—“ 

 

“Wait—“

 

“—would be able to understand it a bit better. We also—“

 

Stiles scrambles to his feet. “Wait! What do you mean ‘one of us’? That’s the second time... what do you mean?” 

 

Derek glances at Boyd, and receives a nervous shrug in response. He isn’t sure why Deaton wanted him to do this to the kid, but he’s not that surprised. Deaton would cross the globe to avoid explaining something clearly and concisely. Derek turns and studies the teen more carefully, taking note of the quickening pace of his heart. 

 

“Deaton seems to think you have some power, based on what he saw in your room.” 

 

Stiles clenches his hands into fists and asks tensely, “You mean a shit-load is sage all over my bed?” 

 

“He found the sage in a perfect circle. A protective circle,” Derek explains, frowning as Stiles’ heartbeat quickens even more. “Stiles—“

 

“That’s not p-possible,” Stiles sputters, a hand going to his chest. 

 

“Stiles, calm down,” he says, stepping forward to reach for him.

 

Stiles jerks back, looking terrified. His breathing starts to pick up, his body shaking as the stench of panic hits he air. Stiles gasps, and turns to run. Derek’s body just reacts, and before Stiles even reaches the door, he has him pinned in his arms with his nose tucked into Stiles’ neck. 

 

“Wha–?” The teen blurts out, too surprised to move. 

 

Derek doesn’t answer yet, instead he’s focused on running his hands in small circles on Stiles’ back. He keeps going until the shuddering stops, and Stiles breathing has slowed down. 

 

“What is going on?” Stiles asks more clearly, giving Derek a gentle shove to free himself. 

 

Derek takes a step back, his wolf already whining at the loss.  “I—I don’t know. I’m sorry.” 

 

“You just hugged my panic attack away.” Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek. “How did you hug my panic attack away? That doesn’t actually _work_. I should know, my dad’s been trying it for years.” 

 

Derek takes another, and another step back, ignoring the whimpering of his wolf. 

 

 

“I don’t... I don’t know,” he repeats, before he turns and escapes upstairs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has a small panic attack.


End file.
